


Lovely Ruin

by Naelyn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gwen Returns, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Merlin Needs a Hug (Merlin), Merlin-centric (Merlin), POV Merlin (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Knights (Merlin), The Knights Return, well... hurt everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 66,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28340877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naelyn/pseuds/Naelyn
Summary: Fifteen hundred years after Camlann, Arthur returns and Merlin is there to welcome him. Merlin has no idea why he's back, no idea if it's pure chance, or destiny, or something even greater -All he knows is that the one thing he has spent fifteen hundred years waiting for is finally happening... and he can't do this.---“Years ago, you insisted on seeing the good in me before anyone else saw it -- insisted on seeing the good in me before even I, myself, saw it. And now---- Now, Merlin, you won’t even look me in the eye. So, please, I am begging you. Tell me, Merlin. Tell me what’s changed.”
Relationships: Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin) (Minor), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 164





	1. A breach between two worlds

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> So, I started writing this a couple of months ago with the idea to envision Merlin's immortality in a dark way, with the idea to really explore this topic, because I think it's just so fascinating, and I love writing from Merlin's perspective.  
> So this is mainly - well, maybe not mainly, but there's a lot of it at the beginning - angst. There'll be a few hopefully comical moments ahead, because how could it be anything but chaotic with the knights involved? But it's dark. Well, the way I see it, at least. It's not SUPER dark, but it's not very cheerful either. Not at the beginning anyway. It's a story about healing, but it starts with being lonely, and trying to grieve, and feeling misunderstood. There's also some sort of retrospection on all that the characters have been through. A way to sort of - deal with some the issues that were left unresolved, hopefully? A way for the characters to achieve peace.
> 
> Also, there are a few references to suicide. For now, they are quite vague, mostly just implied, but I'm not done writing this story yet, so the subject might appear more clearly in future chapters. But it should be mentions only - I'm not planning on writing any explicit flash backs, for example.  
> And there are a lot of mentions of grief and mourning and death.  
> Finally, you should know that since I haven't finished this fic yet, I'll probably add some tags along the way. :)
> 
> Soooo I hope you enjoy reading it, and I'd be really curious to know your feedback. :) I'm sorry about the really long note :')  
> Hope you have a nice day/night!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He could feel his eyes burning gold as his magic commanded the storm not to stand in his way, and, oh, dear, his magic was a mess, wasn’t it?  
> But he kept on running.  
> He wasn’t even paying attention to directions anymore; he could feel a formidable force calling him anyway, dragging him to the Lake of Avalon, probably, and did not find the strength in himself to oppose himself to it.   
> Let it be Arthur, he begged."

The day that Arthur died, Merlin felt both full and empty at once – full of emotions so numerous that he could not name them all, and empty for a part of himself had been removed from him forever.

The day following his death, he was empty. Hollow. Like a pit.

The day after, full. Full of rage and grief and regret, and more.

And so, as the days went on, the infernal rhythm was maintained. Some days, he was full. Others, he was empty.

 _Empty_ , it went. _Full. Full. Empty._

Some days, he felt like screaming to the sky and the earth and the sea, screaming to anyone who would care to listen, screaming, _give him back! Give him back, or take me!_ Now, he understood that all of those times he’d been yelling at water and dirt and air, he had merely been yelling at himself, and all the words had done was bounce over the walls of his mind, echoing in here, again and again and again. The only one who’d been listening all along had been himself. That spoke of his loneliness, didn’t it?

Other days, Merlin was unable to utter a single vowel, because he was empty, and he found himself choking at the nothingness of his soul. It was all just a great void with no sound and no air in it. It felt like falling and falling and falling without ever reaching the ground.

And there were these days when he was both things at once, more aware than ever of the division of his soul, torn and battered by the years and the deaths.

He liked to think that it was as though he were trapped in a bottle – whether there was water or air, it did not matter: he would drown anyway, whether it be in the abundance of thoughts or the absence of any. The ending, he knew, was always the same. And the path itself – well, it mattered little. No one was there by his side from the beginning to the end, anyway. People were just passengers, and soon enough, they faded away in the distance, becoming part of this nothingness, of this haze. The passengers visited Merlin – for a while. They got drunk in his stories, and felt like flying as they saw what gifts the gods had seen fit to give him, but in the end, not one of them remained. In the end, _they_ were the lucky ones, because they, at least, got to leave. For Merlin, there was only one road – life. If one could call it so.

Merlin was no passenger. He was heavy, and burdened, and lost like a wreck. Some days, he felt like the sea just hadn’t cared to spit him back to the earth; felt like it had refused to release him to the shore, instead keeping him prisoner underneath its waves. And other days, he felt like, on the contrary, he was on the sand, petrified, buried in there to the knees or even the stomach. Most days, though, he felt like he was stuck in the middle; stuck between waves that roared and a sand that whispered. Perhaps he was the son of two whimsical entities, the earth and the sea, who wouldn’t yield him to the other parent, and so had agreed to keep him there, in-between, immobile while all the rest, around him, kept moving as the years went. Some sort of – mythical figure, a figure that would not be allowed to rest in peace. A statue meant to remain there till the end of time. To remain in this purgatory, in this room between death and life – because this _thing_ that he had, this immortality that he had been gifted, that was no life.

He had tried, time and again, to force the sea to take him, _take me to Arthur, take me anywhere, anywhere so long as it’s far, so long as I can rest, take me to him or simply take me, I don’t care anymore_ –

But each time, she had spat him back to the shore, back to this place between life and death. She would not take this life that he so willingly gave, probably because the life in itself had no worth left in it. She did not want yet another wreck among her oceans. As he dived into the sea, Merlin acted like he was offering himself to her, but it was rather the opposite, and they both knew it: he was begging for a rest, begging for a favour, and she was saying, _no_.

Some people liked to claim that life gave immortality to those that she liked most, but that was just another lie, just another fantasy harboured by humans unable to accept death. Immortality was no gift, and Merlin was fairly certain that life hated him. He was just a stain, after all; one big, ugly stain in the plans that life and death had for humanity: to be born, to live, and to die. That’s what people _did_ ; they lived and they died. That’s what they had all done, not just Arthur, but all of them; and for centuries, Merlin had hated life for this injustice when, in fact, _he_ had been the one not submitting to its rules. _He_ was the anomaly here, not them. _He_ was the creature that would not sleep eternally, the creature that loved and grieved and loved again, the creature that neither life nor death wanted, because he could not do what humans did best: live and die. He could barely grieve properly. Could barely _love_ properly.

So, he understood why life and death would hate him so. He got it.

Nevertheless, it hurt, to remain in-between, swaying between life and death, like a swing, but always ending up in the middle anyway. The _maybe_ killed him.

During his great explorations of his own, to the west, then to the north, Merlin had thought, had _hoped_ , that these discoveries would be a dawn to new chapters. Young, gullible him had somehow found a way to convince himself that, on the other side of the sea, there would be Arthur waiting for him. Arthur reborn, maybe? But this had been yet another utopia of his. There had been no Arthur waiting for him at the other edge of this world, no more than there had been these lands of heaven that men had been dreaming of. In this way, he guessed that he had been quite alike to men: it was quite a human trait to seek novelty and happiness in the unknown, to tell oneself that it would be ‘better’ there. But they’d been mistaken, all of them, him included. There were no destinies on the other side of the sea; just more suffering.

From there on, Merlin had quickly understood that it did not matter _where_ he went on this Earth: the _when_ was all that mattered – _when Albion’s need is greatest_ –, and it was the one thing that he could not control. For all his powers as a warlock and as a dragonlord, he was helpless as any man in the face of time. Emrys could command the seas and the skies, demand from the earth that she shake and break, ask of men that they run and collapse; but the one thing that he could not do, was make time flow quicker.

Time and death were to be his foes, and all of a sudden Merlin found himself regretting Morgana and Mordred, and all those who had preceded them, and regretting this time when they had been his biggest worry – because these had been human foes, while time and death were anything but. Time and death did not sway when you hit them; they endured. Another enemy of his, that he quickly became well acquainted with, was none other than Merlin himself. Men would claim, centuries later, that _a man’s mind is his worst enemy_. However, this was a lesson that Merlin had learnt at his own expense long before the words were ever uttered. His mind, alas, knew him all too well; living fifteen hundred years with oneself tended to do that to a man.

And so his enemies stood before him; time, death and himself. _Three enemies, and none of them can die._ It was bound to become an endless fight.

To go back to Arthur’s death… Well, men often liked to divide grief in distinct stages. Denial, anger, sadness, acceptance… Most people went through these phases in the span of months, or years – after all, what choice did they have? Their lives were short, and they _had_ to live – that was, after all, the primary rule of life. They were programmed to do so, in a way.

Merlin, however, grieved for centuries. Those who theorised about immortality and such liked to assume that the death of a loved one was but the blink of an eye in the life of a man that did not die… but they were wrong. So, so wrong. Arthur was not the blink of an eye to Merlin. He was everything, and without him, Merlin was – nothing. So, yes, Merlin grieved for centuries. Some centuries, he denied it all. Others, he felt the losses very acutely. Even some days now, Merlin found himself still grieving, still reminiscing, still wishing they would _give him back, damn it_. Merlin’s grief did not follow the normal itinerary. It spun, and spun, and spun, seemingly never ending. It was an unending cycle, and an unhealthy one, at that. Did all men grieve like this, them mortal men? If so, then how did they bear it? While most of the time, Merlin was reminded of how different he was from them all, there were times when he found himself wondering if grief wasn’t what brought them all closer in the end.

He tried to grieve like them, truly, he did. At one point, he thought that maybe his persisting love for Arthur was what kept him back. Maybe his inability to mourn was the reason he could not go, be _taken_ , like all the others. Maybe that was it, simply – grief, and love. Why else would he be refused into the kingdom of the dead? Why else would his soul persist here, when it clearly had no aim?

Maybe it was because of his sins. Because he had sinned, had he not? Profusely so. But then, so had Morgana, and so had Mordred, and so had Arthur, and so had all of them! Or was he to carry the sins of them all, per pretext* that he could have prevented them from happening? Nevertheless, he confessed. For one whole century, he confessed, confessed to all of the sins that he could possibly think of. Confessed to them aloud, to the earth, to the paper, to men. Was anybody truly listening? If so, nobody replied. This century at least taught him that he was a sinful man, and that, should death once open its gates to him, well, supposing that there was a hell, that’s where he’d end up.

But then, why wasn’t hell struggling to catch him? Why, why, why? Maybe, he thought, maybe he knew too much. After all, Kilgharrah had claimed that Arthur’s story was to live long in the minds of men. Maybe all he had to do was… share. Unburden himself of all that knowledge. Maybe that was it. And so he wrote. Wrote all that he knew, all about the golden king whose father had been a tyrant, and about the compassionate princess who became a villain, and about the golden-hearted servant girl who turned into one of the most merciful queens that would ever come to be. He wrote of the knights as well: the faithful one, the noblest one of them all, the laughing one, all of them. He also taught those around him – taught them about magic, and equality, and the danger of tyrants. He gave all that he had to make this world better, gave all that remained clung to his soul and might somehow make it worthy.

And yet, death still wouldn’t take him.

All of these centuries, Merlin did his best to atone for his sins. He did that by sheltering magic users, and turning kings into better men, and attempting to _fix_ the villains, as best as he could. These people he met were no Freyas or Arthurs or Morganas, he knew as much, but at times, he saw slight similitudes. And he wanted to do _better_.

Merlin thought, _if death won’t take me, I may as well make the best of my time._ He became quite detached regarding his immortality. What other choice did he have? Quickly, it became clear that he could not die, and apart from brief moments of madness when he was still caught in the haze of the nightmares and the panic attacks, he did not try to remove his own life again. He no longer believed in gods; faith had left his heart not long after Arthur’s death – and by _not long_ , he meant only a couple of centuries. As the warlock watched civilisations be made, he also saw gods rise and fall in the hearts of men, and belief was not long to leave his own heart as well. There was no more room for belief in there; only room for grief, and guilt, and a festering wound that each day gained ground.

Of course, not all centuries were bad. Some centuries, he almost felt _useful_ , which was a nice change from all those years when his guilt wouldn’t let him breathe. Some centuries, love softened his heart and carved his hopes as, once again, he allowed himself to believe: _what if? What if I could die alongside this person? What if I could give my life for this noble cause? What if this was_ it _? The moment I’ve so long craved for? The moment I’ll find Arthur in death’s kingdom?_

He had hoped, hoped so ardently, that he would become a normal man and _die_.

But he never did.

And anyway, if there was one person with whom Merlin ought to have perished, it was Arthur. The people _after_ him – well, none of them Merlin had loved as ardently as he did Arthur.

Some days, and he felt guilty just to think of It, he found himself wishing that Arthur had been born a few centuries later, or that he himself had been born earlier. Wishes that he could have had a taste of his immortality _before_ he fell for Arthur and lost him, thus resulting in his life breaking into a tragedy, just to see if he would like the taste of this immortality.

After all, immortality had been a thing that men had always craved for, had it not? Surely that must be for a reason. Merlin just couldn’t help wondering what this immortality would have felt like, had it not been for Arthur… and a part of him, bolder, thought: _if you’d met Arthur and lost him centuries after being born, would his death have affected you the same way? Did it hurt you so because of who he was, or because he was the first?_ It was frightening to think of it that way.

And yet, he wondered. Had his life not begun in a tragedy, would he have turned into some sort of apathetic creature, indifferent to the thought of death? Would Arthur’s death have just been another death among so many? Had the gods miscalculated somehow, by making him be born at that time? Would _Emrys the indifferent_ have coped with immortality more easily? And would he have succeeded, had he been born earlier?

But he knew that it was not right. His life had taken all of its meaning _with_ Arthur, and lost it with him, too. Sometimes, he thought that the only years when he’d truly _lived_ had been those that he’d spent with Arthur by his side. Sometimes, he thought that all the other years didn’t matter, that they had no worth.

Oh, and he was mad, still. Why, oh, why had the gods seen fit to initiate his immortality with a taste of tragedy? Tragedy was supposed to come at the _end_! Had he done it all backwards, somehow? Couldn’t the gods that he had once believed in have waited a little while longer before shattering his entire world to pieces?

 _Maybe_ , he had taken to thinking, _maybe it’s all just a cycle. Maybe, when Arthur comes back, my life will end. If Arthur comes back, that is._ But perhaps Arthur’s return _would_ set things right again, and fix this anomaly that Merlin had become.

The fact remained that Merlin’s long, long life had begun in tragedy, thus the injustice of it, and that, that, he could not forgive. _That_ – was not fair.

 _You’ve picked the wrong man!_ he had yelled at the sea, more times than he could count. _You have picked, and tortured, and broken the wrong man! Look what you’ve turned me into! Look what you’ve turned the great almighty Emrys into! You should have taken me! You should have let me die by his side, let me die as Merlin, instead of making me live as a man I no longer recognise._

Because by right, they should have. By right, this misplaced tragedy, meant to rise at the end of the tale, should have been _his_ ending, as well. _Their_ ending. Wasn’t that what he had said? _Protect you, or die by your side!_ His voice had been so full of faith back then, back at this time when he had still thought of himself as a master of his own fate. The idea of dying _for_ Arthur, _with_ Arthur, had been an alluring one.

But he guessed that the gods he had once believed in as ardently as the next man had had other plans for him.

And Merlin knew, deep inside his heart, he _knew_ , that if losing Arthur had not killed him, then nothing else would. If he had not died on that fateful night, with Arthur’s dead body limp in his arms, screaming, _he’s my friend_ , and _take me, please, take me instead_ … then he never would. He would endure through the ages, endure through the losses, endure on this Earth until the end of time… or, until Arthur’s return.

Only the end of men, or the return of Arthur, would put an end to his suffering – and sometimes, he feared that both things might occur at once. After all, what better hour of need for men than their final hour?

What scared Merlin the most was the state Arthur would find him in when that time would come.

See, there were words, sentences, fragments of dialogues, that Merlin could not seem to get out of his head.

 _I wanted you to always be you_ was one of those fragments.

_Always… be… you._

_Always._ If Arthur had known what this _always_ meant, would he still have said it? Would he still have made Merlin swear _always_ to remain the same, for one century, three centuries, twenty centuries?

Would he still have said it?

Would he have asked the impossible from Merlin, and believed him able to make it happen?

.

Men, they said –

That immortality was a privilege.

That it was something to crave for.

That it enabled a man to avoid the most tragic thing that there was; death.

Men were ignorant, and the more ignorant they were to the topic, the more they had to say about it.

Immortality was something that _fascinated_ them, something they kept studying throughout the centuries, seemingly never getting tired of writing theories concerning something that they would never touch nor understand.

Their theories were cold, and solid, and unwavering.

They said that _eternity_ was that which had nor beginning nor ending, while immortality, on the other hand, had origins. Immortality _had_ to begin somewhere, since it was some sort of equivalent to eternity for _men_ – in other words, creatures that came into this world with birth. The life of an immortal man was supposed to begin _some_ where.

And yet there were days when Merlin no longer saw this beginning, and fancied himself being born in the fourteenth, or the sixteenth, or even the nineteenth century.

Days when Merlin woke, and could hardly remember where and when it had all begun.

Days when the lines just got – blurred.

Days when Merlin found that he could no longer tell what was him and what was history; could no longer dissociate what belonged to him from what belonged to the common of men.

They were days when Merlin felt human and cursed his humanity, cursed these damned emotions that overwhelmed him, shattered him, drained him just as much as they filled him. Days when he could feel that he was just a man, just _one_ man.

And other days, he felt like that cold creature that the stories spoke of, that creature made of buried grief and frozen loves, who, as the days passed, grew indifferent to death and to the act of passing away. Days when he felt _old_ , full of memories, but empty of feelings; inconsistent, simply. Just one wide gap. On these days, he thought, prayed, begged: _emotions, fill me! Just let me be filled with something, something to remind me that once, I was human. Once, I was more than just a group of memories, more than just history. Once, I was a man. Once, I was loved._

And, sooner or later, the emotions came back. Of course, there was pain, remorse, and guilt, but there was also a little bit of joy and pleasure, and that just made it worth it.

Every so often, and it was with dread in his heart, Merlin would wonder whether these emotions that he felt were truly his, _genuinely_ his, or if they were just intense memories of what he had once felt, memories of a time when he would feel more in a day than Merlin sometimes felt in a month. Memories of a time when people still knew his name when they saw him, and cared enough to ask if he was alright. Stars, how he missed that time.

When had things got so complicated? When had things got complicated to the point that, most days, as he woke, he had to ask himself what century they were in? When had the lines of time got so blurred?

_Time decided to go mess with my mind, meddling with the past and the present and the future, and now there are days when I wake up to find that I no longer belong to myself._

_When am I?_

He couldn’t even tell the number of times he had asked himself that question.

_When am I, when am I, when am I?_

He whispered it at dawn and at dusk, during the day and during the night, whispered it as a precaution that he would not spend a whole day locked in the fantasy of another century with other people and other loves. He couldn’t allow that. It hurt too much, afterwards, to be reminded of when he was and what he’d lost. Fantasies hurt.

Ofttimes, Merlin felt like some sort of wanderer; a man with no notion of time who belonged in neither present nor past, simply wandering in the towns of men without truly being there. He felt so out of place in this world.

Some days, he fancied himself being reborn; born in another time, with other memories and other loved ones. Born as a normal boy, with no powers and no great destiny. A boy who would struggle with life, as did each person, but whose existence would follow the typical itinerary. He would be born, grow up, love, lose, grieve, perhaps love again, and laugh and cry, and travel and remain, and die at the end of his years. Die, as should have been his _right_.

Most of all, though, he wanted – needed? – to _belong_. To belong someplace, sometime, as he had once belonged so many years ago, in what seemed to him like another life entirely. The only place Merlin could remember ever belonging were Arthur’s arms, and those – well, those were no longer an option, were they? For neither of them. He rarely saw those arms in his dreams now, scarcely ever felt them, and even when he did, they were cold. They were cold, and so was Merlin when he woke up. As he had allowed himself to fall into other men’s embraces, he had tried to close his eyes and to picture Arthur in their stead, to picture his king, but it would not do. The illusion would fade within seconds, because of tiny little details that seemed to have inked themselves onto Merlin’s soul forever. It was funny and sad, how Merlin seemed unable to remember most things about Camelot, but how the memory of Arthur’s arms around him, however, appeared to have remained intact. Despite the centuries that had passed, it never once wavered; if anything, the memory seemed to cling even tighter to Merlin’s skin as the days went, wrapping him in its essence in what seemed like a vain attempt to keep him warm in a cold, cold world.

Merlin’s point remained – _men needed belonging._ They _belonged_. Whether it be in a concrete place or by somebody’s side, they were creatures of belonging, creatures of hearth and family. Some men saw home in the glint of a fireplace, while others saw it in the freedom of a field. Either way, they found solace in the knowledge that someplace, they belonged. Mortals needed homes – nests, akin to birds’. They needed the conviction that, even though in death, they would find themselves parted from their loved ones and forced to face a fate meant for them alone, at least in life, they would find themselves a home. Someplace warm and earnest, just for them. One of men’s most ardent interrogations, apart from the typical _what is death?_ question, was actually probably the other typical question: _will I belong?_ Men who did not belong in life found that they would rather face death than carry on like this, and Merlin – Merlin had stopped belonging in this world a very long time ago. Now he understood Arthur’s plea: _just… hold… me._ If his final instants had come as well, he would have asked for the very same favour – he would have asked for Arthur’s arms, and Arthur’s words, and Arthur’s presence. He’d have wanted to be held, and comforted, and given the sensation that he was _loved_. He would have wanted the one place where he could belong, his one home: _Arthur._

Merlin could now only truly belong if he looked in his memories, and didn’t that make him a sorrowful creature indeed?

He envied men for their nests, even though he knew that he could never hope to own a nest of his own. Few men remained in the same home for their entire life, and so how could Merlin, a fifteen hundred year old man, ever hope to settle somewhere and have it remain the same throughout the centuries? Time would ravage it, as it ravaged all things. As it had ravaged Merlin.

And as for Avalon – Avalon hardly felt like a home anymore. The lake of Avalon tasted like the bitterness in Merlin’s soul, the grief in Merlin’s heart, the regrets on Merlin’s conscience. It said, _you couldn’t achieve it. You couldn’t achieve your destiny. Now watch as time and death strip you of all that once made you Merlin._ Avalon was like a festering wound, a wound that had been festering for fifteen hundred years already, and yet each day got worse. It was a bit like Merlin, in some ways – perhaps that was why he despised it so –: peaceful from the outside, peaceful to the wanderers that walked around it, but bloody and ugly to those who like Merlin could see it for what it truly was: the ground where a broken-hearted warlock had dragged his king’s limp body into a bark, and offered him to the Sidhe. If Merlin looked close enough, then he could see the dark-haired boy holding death in his arms and begging at those who had made him to let Arthur live again. He could almost hear himself – _I can’t lose him!_ Could almost smell the blood on Arthur’s body and the iron of Excalibur. He could smell the emotions, too – the dismay, the hope-tinted despair, the loneliness, the horror, the _loss_ …

Because he had lost everything, in the end, had he not? Everything but his life, a life that was not even a life. He had lost it all the day he had lost Arthur. So long as Arthur had lived, then his previous losses, somehow, had been easier to accept. So long as Arthur lived, Merlin had been able to hold on, to remain strong.

But with Arthur gone… with Arthur gone, life had lost all of its meaning.

The memories were all he had left, and they left like both a blessing and a curse. Merlin felt like the remaining antiquity of an archaic world, the fossil of a time that no longer was and never again would be. He felt like something that did not quite fit, something that broke any harmony there might have been as he walked into a room. Something that was no longer adapted to this world.

Would he fit anywhere?

No, truly.

Had time and death ravaged him so much that there was no place left for him to call his home?

_I am a ruin full of ghosts, some days pretty, some days ugly. There are days when the ruin’s quiet and the men come to visit. Other days, it’s loud, and the demons in the walls are screaming. It is the quiet days one must beware of. The quiet days are the worst._

Merlin was a ruin burning with yearning; yearning for a time that was over. A time when Arthur, after one of their adventures, would look at him warmly and say, _let’s go home, shall we?_ A time when his room at Gaius’s would feel like a refuge, a safe place, a home. A time when he and Gwen would smile and joke about spending their whole lives in the castle of Camelot.

He looked back at those days with envy now.

After Arthur’s death, he had tried to return to Camelot, back to Gwen, back to Gaius, back to the knights. But the city, as warm as it had been made by Gwen’s ruling, had felt empty and cold without Arthur. He had tried other places, too, but they’d all been just as empty as Camelot. After Arthur’s death, this world had never quite lost its coldness to Merlin. Often, he would wake at night, terrified of this world, afraid of its hostility, freezing with the absence of Arthur. _Hold me_ , he’d think.

Nobody ever replied.

Each place he went, Merlin’s loved ones kept following him, along with memories of how their life had been. Each time somebody laughed, he thought of Gwen’s light and sincere laughter, or of Gwaine’s frank chuckles, or of Arthur’s radiant smile in those rare moments when the boy in him would resurface. Each time somebody took his hand, he thought of how Arthur’s hand would have felt instead – firm, reassuring, perfect against his. Each time somebody called him _friend_ , he thought of his other friends, and of how he had lost them all; and so he was reminded that these current friends, he would lose as well.

Merlin had made people his home, and that had been his mistake: assuming that they would remain by his side so long as he lived. Assuming that they would live all together their happy-ever-after. Turning these men and women that he could not protect into his home. _You’re a lover, Merlin,_ his mother had often told him, brushing his cheek with one hand. _Your ability to love is what makes you so special._ He was beginning to doubt that. After all, wasn’t it his love for Arthur what had jeopardised the entire prophecy? His love had been his doom, just like he had been Morgana’s. To allow himself to love was the most terrible thing that could happen to an immortal man, and to turn his friends into his home? Well, that was an awfully dangerous thing to do for a man that did not die. He had done it once. Twice, thrice. He would not do it again, not if he could prevent it.

 _From now on,_ Merlin vowed, not for the first time, _I’ll be my own home. A ruin, yes, but my own at least. No one will take that away from me – if they do, then they’ll have to take my life, and that’s all I’m asking for. From now on, I’ll be my own ruin, my own chaotic home._

.

And then Arthur was back.

December the twenty-fourth, two thousand and thirteen. Christmas Eve.

Trust the prat to pick a day in the middle of bloody winter to come back; miraculously, the water of the lake hadn’t been entirely frozen, although it had been a close call.

Arthur was back, and that… should have been… it.

After all, wasn’t that where most writers would have chosen to end the fairy tale? With the return of the golden king to his longing warlock, and the typical and-they-lived-happily-ever-after sort of ending?

Merlin and Arthur’s stories did not stop here, though. How could they?

So, December the twenty-fourth. A few minutes prior to midnight. Snowflakes falling from the sky and Merlin sat in his living room, wearing naught but a thin, grey jumper over his nightclothes. Around him, sitting in that very same room, the knights and the queen. Gwaine, drinking beer from the bottle and discovering the wonders of telly. Percival, animatedly cheering for Manchester United, his favourite football team _of all times_ , to quote the knight himself. Elyan and Gwen, huddled close in the sofa, the queen humming quiet melodies from ancient times and running soothing fingers through her brother’s dark hair. Leon and Lancelot, playing cards at the wooden table, the latter throwing Merlin worried glances that the warlock did his best to ignore.

Merlin could hear his friends speaking, interacting him with him at times, and yet he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that this wasn’t _real_. He felt like he was caught in a haze of some sort, unable to fully apprehend the reality that _his friends were back_. This didn’t feel – real.

“Remote controls are _amazing_!” Gwaine was saying, between two more than generous gulps of ale, awe-filled eyes flickering between the small object and the screen. “You just have to… click there… and _bam_! The people are screaming! And then you click there, and there, again, and _bam_! Now they’re mute.”

And yet it felt real. Gwaine felt real. It was just the situation that – didn’t.

“Wish it could work with people, too,” Elyan grumbled as fiercely as he could, though the intimidating warrior effect was sort of ruined by the Nemo plushie that he was holding close to his chest and refusing to let go of, causing Gwen to moan in inarticulate complaint.

_This is all I’ve ever dreamt of, and more._

“Oh! What happens if I click _there_? What d’you reckon these shapes mean, Merlin? Some sort of secret language, perhaps?”

“Would you stop switching the channels, Gwaine? I’m trying to watch the game here!” Percival snapped, which was quite a rare thing for the usually calm knight.

_It would be so easy to believe… so easy to simply believe that this is real... but what if – what if it isn’t? What if it’s just my silly, silly heart toying with my mind?_

“Who’s that man speaking?” Gwaine asked, frowning and pointing at the television screen.

“That… is the commentator, Gwaine,” Percival said between gritted teeth.

“Hm. Sounds like a fun job. How can I make it so that people can hear _my_ voice on their moving boxes, too? There’s no reason why _he_ should be the only one allowed all the fun!”

Percival pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly. He suddenly looked quite disgusted by the prospect of Gwaine achieving that new goal of his. “If _that_ ever happens, I’ll definitely stop watching football.”

“Oi! I’ll have you know I have a very soothing voice – “

“No, you don’t,” Elyan said, snorting. “Lancelot does. Gwen does.”

“And Merlin, when he speaks French,” Percival calmly added, eyes still glued to the television. Merlin was startled to hear his own name, and he tried to soothe his quickly beating heart.

“You can speak _French_?” Gwaine exclaimed. “How come we never heard you?”

“Because,” the warlock raised both hands, “we’re _not_ in France?”

“That’s utter _bullshit_ , mate.” Even since the knight had heard the word, he could not stop using it. Merlin’s eyes widened as he saw Gwaine practically _jump_ to the chair that he was sat in, and kneel in front of him. From the corner of his eyes, the warlock saw Percival rush on the remote control his friend had left behind, and tuck it under his thigh protectively. “C’mon, then. Pretend that I’m French.” Then, pushing back his hair exaggeratedly: “Pretend that I work for _L’Oréal._ ” A few of the knights snorted at that. “That my name is – what do they call it, already? _Gauvain?_ Hi, I’m Gauvain. What would you say to me?”

“Gwaine, seriously.” Merlin rolled his eyes. Alas, it seemed like his friend was quite serious indeed. Seemingly sensing his distress, Leon, from behind them, suddenly cleared his throat.

“Well, _I_ can speak Russian,” he piped in from, and Merlin sent him a grateful look. “If anyone cares, that is.”

Gwaine instantly rushed to his side, a broad grin on his lips.

“Russian? How come _you_ can speak Russian?” Elyan turned to his sister, frowning. “We returned, what, three weeks ago? Nobody learns a language that quickly!”

“It’s thanks to all his Cold War movies,” Gwen whispered back. “He is fascinated with the time period.”

To that, Merlin could only nod. It was funny, how each of the knights had been taken with specific things from this era. For Percival, it had been football and basketball; for Gwaine, anything remotely related to technology; and for Leon, well, it had been history, particularly the Cold War.

What the knights and queen didn’t know was that he had also offered to give Leon Russian lessons, seeing how fond the knight was of the language. On his long years on Earth, Merlin had had many opportunities to learn new languages. Teaching and sharing them had quickly become a pastime of his.

“Hang on… What did you say? What does that mean? What does that mean, Leon? Did you just _insult_ me? Wait, let me just use _goggle traducer_ , just, stay there, okay? Don’t do anything! I’ll be right back! I just need to find that small box Merlin gave us…”

Merlin leaned back into his chair, gazing outside once more. The snowflakes were falling quicker and quicker as the wind began to rose, and he could already distinguish the signs of a tempest.

His magic could feel the weather shifting outside, feel the way the leaves were being tormented at each gust of wind, and how the earth was covered with layers of snow, and, unconsciously, the warlock shivered. He thought of the world outside, oh-so-very-cold, and of how he would come to miss the warmth of this living room. He knew that, in the end, the outside and the inside were the same – the only thing that differed was _who_ _was_ _where_.

Here was his family.

Outside was the world.

He knew that was not entirely accurate, though. Yes, Gwen and the knights were here – _and bless them for it_ –, but there was still one person missing.

One person…

Actually, he’d been right. Outside was _his_ world. Out in the wild. The one thing that mattered. The one person that made things make sense.

 _I’ll wait for him_ , he vowed internally, not for the first time. _Wait until I see him with my own eyes – and then, only then will I leave._

He hadn’t told his friends of that design of his, because he did not have the words to explain why. They would not understand. _Could_ not understand.

Things seemed so much simpler for them: they had come back, and so, naturally, were very intent on sticking together. Merlin knew that things were hardly _that_ simple, and that his friends, just like him, had lost a lot. Their bodies might be intact, but so were their memories.

And yet, there was something in them that Merlin envied. Something in them that did not exist in the warlock’s heart anymore.

It was something in the way that they gathered, and talked, and laughed, as one old family finally reunited. Something in the way that they acknowledged each other as fellow humans, and found solace in the comfort of the other. They each saw this new life as a second chance, and thought no more of it. They simply knew how to enjoy each day as if it were their last – just like Arthur had said: that’s what warriors did, and none among them was anything less than a warrior.

But Merlin could no longer do this.

Not when he knew that, while they might enjoy their days as they came, _he_ would have the rest of eternity to miss his friends once he lost them – again.

Not when he saw them, together, speaking of their thoughts of this _second chance_ , and he himself was reminded that no one would ever truly understand the things that he had been through.

Not when he had the certainty, deep in his heart, that if they had come back, then destiny had brought them here, and that if he stayed – if he stayed, then he would make the same mistakes over and over again, and be to blame for the way things would end.

He _could_ sit there, by their side, and pretend to _be_ like them… for a while, maybe.

But certainly not forever.

Because he was _not like them_. Not anymore. The face of Merlin he might wear, but his days as a king’s servant were long gone. His days as a king’s _best friend_ were long gone as well. He was no longer what they wanted from him, no longer what they sought, and he dreaded how they would react the day they would realise that. Dreaded what terrible emotions he would read on their faces once they found out that Merlin was simply _not_ who they believed him to be. He no longer was. While _they_ were the same as the day they’d been parted, or similarly so, Merlin was – not.

He was something else entirely, some sort of immortal creature that nobody could place words on. A _freak_ to many; even to himself, on some of his darkest days. There was an undeniable boundary between them and he now, and the days when he had thought his magic to be the only thing left standing between his friends and himself were now a derisive memory to him.

Merlin had seen the wars and the tyranny, the slavery and the rebellions. He had been a slave and an opponent, a warrior and a king’s adviser. He had scraped the grounds of a huge Athenian arena as well as stood by a duke’s side and said, _I’ll take my tea with no milk, thanks_. He had befriended and lost more men than he could count, and there were days when he wondered however his memory was heavy enough to carry the weight of them all. He had seen things beyond his friends’ maddest imagination, _done_ things beyond their maddest imagination, and had gone through the ages concealing his identity to keep himself safe. When he introduced himself to people as Merlin, they often laughed out loud and said, _oh, like the wizard?_ , to which Merlin replied by a mischievous grin he hoped didn’t seem too broken. _Better than Gandalf, no?_ he’d often say, before deflecting the subject by speaking of other matters. The truth was, ever since the day immortality had buried its claws deep inside Merlin’s heart, he had been doomed never to be known by anyone again. Never to be known, by anyone, for anything, save for what he showed them and wanted them to believe him to be. He’d been doomed to loneliness, and while all these centuries he had thought that it was terrible to meet someone and have to contain himself, contain all that he was, now, he found that there was one thing worse: the thing he was experiencing now. To face his friends, those who were the closest to his heart, and have them take him for something that he no longer was. To have become a stranger to their hearts, and dread the day when they would realise that. Because they would find out, eventually. The best thing he could do now was leave before it happened.

Merlin had played many a role in his life, and there were still days when he woke, and no longer knew whose face to wear. Days when he woke, gazed up at the ceiling or the sky, and asked himself, resigned and weary and old: _who will it be today? The wise man or the fool?_

That role, the role of Merlin, was a role he no longer knew how to play, and it was only a matter of time before his friends found out just that. Only a matter of time before they saw the fractures in his smiles and the sobs in his laughter. Only a matter of time before they understood that Merlin’s answer to their question of how long he had been there, _just a couple months, don’t worry_ , had been one gigantic lie meant to conceal his immortality.

They were beginning to notice already – first Lancelot, then Gwen, and now Gwaine, too. He could see the looks they cast him – looks of concern that made him either want to tell them everything, or to walk past this door never to look back.

Merlin absently brushed the flames dancing in the fireplace with one hand, causing its shape to morph into that of a dragon. His magic, he thought, was the only thing that had kept him standing through all of those years on his own. Contrarily to men, it did not die. It grew. And it never once wavered, always burning ardently in a corner of his heart.

“Merlin?”

“Lancelot?” he said, eyes still gazing through the window.

He did not need to look at the fireplace to know that there _was_ a dragon. He just… felt it.

“He’ll be back. If _we_ were brought back, then he most certainly will.” Even without looking at him, Merlin could tell that there was a weak, tentative smile on the edge of his lips, an attempt at reassurance, and that his eyes were shining, but also refusing to leave Merlin’s face, and that Leon must be following the conversation, though busying himself with the cards. When it came to his knowledge of his friends, it felt as though Merlin had only left them the night before.

“I know.” Merlin smiled a smile that probably didn’t meet his eyes. “The gods would have to be quite cruel to leave me alone to deal with the lot of you.”

 _The gods._ Well, whoever it was that ruled from up there, they’d been much crueller than that already. He refrained an urge to scoff cynically, instead working on making his smile appear as genuine as possible.

The fire dragon danced happily around his hand.

“Until then,” Gwaine happily stated, though there was an unmistakable pain to his tone, “I’m still Merlin’s favourite person on this Earth, and I intend to enjoy these last moments as such.”

“Eh!” Elyan instantly exclaimed. “ _Gwen_ is Merlin’s favourite person here, just so we’re clear.”

“ _Pfft!_ You lot are just jealous of what Merlin and I have, isn’t that right, Merlin?”

“Everyone knows that Merlin and Lancelot have the best relationship here,” Percival said neutrally out of the blue, his eyes still focused on the telly screen. “Your bitterness is solving nothing, my friend.”

Gwaine heatedly retorted something, and quickly, the three knights – Gwaine, Percival and Elyan – had engaged in a very lively conversation regarding Merlin’s affections. Lancelot, however, wasn’t so easily deterred from the topic of Merlin’s troubled mind. Taking a few steps to join his friend where he was sitting, he then knelt as Gwaine previously had, his stance more solemn than playful, and tried to catch his friend’s eye. Merlin swallowed nervously.

“I can only imagine what you must feel, Merlin. I was – told of how things finished between you and Arthur. About what happened at Camlann, and how you changed the odds of the battle. Did Arthur – know? About the magic?”

Flashes from Camlann erupting inside his mind, Merlin nodded, closing his eyes briefly. “He knew, yes. About the magic. He knew.”

Lancelot’s face fell, though Merlin saw something akin to relief in the way his stance relaxed. The knight had never liked lying, so it made sense that he should be happy truth was at last restored. “Oh, Merlin…”

Merlin shook his head this time, eyelids fluttering to push back unwanted tears. “He forgave me, Lancelot.” Then he laughed of a sad laugh, both because of the memory, and because of the realisation that, as he spoke to Lancelot, it felt as though they had never been parted. “Not that he knew one tenth of what had happened, of what I’d done, but – he thanked me. On his final moments.” Merlin hated that it seemed like he was speaking of a deceased loved one, but then he was, wasn’t he?

Arthur had died ages ago, and he should barely be a ghost to Merlin now – should just be a memory that made him happier than sad. But then – then why did it hurt that much to remember?

Fortunately, Lancelot didn’t seem too surprised by the warlock’s frail state of mind – after all, in the knight’s mind, Merlin hadn’t been on this Earth for so much longer than the rest of them. Therefore, they must figure that Arthur death still remained quite recent to the servant. That was probably why they never truly spoke of it; this was the closest that Merlin had come to mentioning Arthur’s death since his friends had returned.

“We’ve come a long way from the Arthur I left at the veil,” his friend mused, and Merlin blinked furiously, repressing tears. It felt strange to speak of such things, and to realise that his memories of it were as intact as Lancelot’s despite the many centuries that he had endured. “He was already good-hearted then, but not so far as to embrace magic, I don’t think – “

“He did not embrace it,” Merlin quickly blurted out, because it was true. Arthur _didn’t_. “For all I know, he might very well change his mind if – when – he returns. Those were his final moments, Lancelot.” He forced himself to smile. “You can’t hold him accountable for what he said back then. He wanted peace.”

“And I am sure you gave him that.”

_I gave him my arms, and my words, and my tears. Would have given him my heart as well had I been given the time._

“Merlin,” Lancelot seriously began, “listen. Arthur, above all, was true to his word. You yourself told me that. He wouldn’t have lied to you. Not about something like that.”

“Like I said, he was dying,” and why did Merlin suddenly wish Arthur would just pop up beside him just to say, _show some respect for your king, Merlin_? “What would _you_ say if you were dying?” Then, realising that Lancelot had, in fact, very much died, Merlin bit his lip, eyes horrified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – “

He had died.

The realisation struck him, and his heart _ached_.

 _They’ve all died here_. He glanced around the room, eyes brushing over the silhouettes of Gwen and Elyan, Percival and Gwaine, Leon and Lancelot again. _I’ve lost them all. Grieved them all. By right, they should all be dead. Christ, they’re like ghosts._

His fear that they might just be ghosts summoned by his head resurfaced once more. Or maybe it wasn’t his head that had brought them here – maybe it was some sort of superior entity, eager to serve some twisted design. Lancelot, Gwen, Gwaine – had they all been sent here to torture him? Since there was no way for hell to retrieve the sinner that Merlin was, was hell being taken down to him? Was this superior entity already thinking of when they would take the knights and the queen from the warlock once more? _Don’t be so self-centred,_ Mer _lin. Not_ everything _is about you._ That’s what Arthur would have said, and why did Merlin keep imagining those things right now? Why did he feel so vulnerable, all of a sudden? Why did his magic keep acting of its own accord, more so than usual? Why did he feel so torn, so, so unstable?

_What is wrong with me?_

_And what is wrong with_ them _? Are these my friends facing me, or shades? Friends, or a fantasy? Have I gone mad at last?_

Lancelot kept speaking in worried tones, saying words of comfort that Merlin could not hear, and it just felt like _too much_ , too bloody much.

Merlin wanted to believe that he was sane and that his thoughts were in order, but that was a very hard thing to do when the only one qualified to testify of this said sanity was himself.

“I – I – I can’t…” His throat was dry.

_Think, think, think!_

He didn’t want to feel this much. He needed to feel in control of himself, if not of the lives around him. This was dangerous, _dangerous, dangerous_.

“Merlin? What’s wrong?”

And that’s when he felt it, emerging from the chaos of his thoughts and feelings.

The breach.

A breach between two worlds.

This sudden – crack. It was powerful, powerful beyond words; powerful enough to cause Merlin’s magic to shrink back in fear, but, at the same time, to sing joyfully underneath his skin. It was huge, and omnipresent, and formidable.

Formidable to the point that even the knights and Gwen started before exchanging nervous glances. “Did the ground just _shake_?” Gwaine asked. Even Percival’s eyes were no longer fixed on the telly, instead checking out each corner of the room with a warrior’s keenness. The knights’ instincts from fifteen hundred years ago had resurfaced at this instant, stirred awake by the call of danger.

Merlin, however, paid his friends no attention. He paid them no attention, because he had difficulty thinking himself. The most coherent thought that he had was, _must go find him_ , and when he reopened his eyes, which he had apparently closed, it was to see that, without him being aware of it, his feet had already led him to the doorstep, and his hand was now clutching the door handle tightly.

“ _Arthur_ ,” he breathed out, and as soon as he said it, he _knew_ , he just _knew_ , that he had been right. That this truly _was_ his king. He was _certain_ of it, because this time, as he said the king’s name, it no longer sounded like a lie, no longer sounded like some dissonant fantasy or plea harboured by a boy in denial, it just sounded like –

It sounded like –

The truth.

Merlin opened the door and rushed outside, into the storm.

Later, he would remember his friends screaming at him, warning him of the storm and begging him to stay inside.

Later, he would remember his friends trying in vain to follow him outside, only to be held back by the violence of the wind.

Later, he would remember the way his magic had whistled against his ears, urging the tempest faster and, paradoxically, carving a path for him through the storm.

But at this instant, he cared little for any of that. The only thing that mattered was Arthur, and his gestures came as naturally as they had on that first banquet night, as he had rushed by his prince’s side to get him out of the dagger’s way. Vaguely, he thought that this would be a nice way to complete the circle. Kilgharrah himself would be quite proud, were he still of this world. Mostly, though, he was just thinking about reaching the lake as early as possible, because the mere idea of Arthur awakening in freezing waters, all on his own, filled his heart with dread.

He needed to be quick enough, because if he was not –

If he was not…

_I can’t lose him again. Not when they’ve just given him back to me._

Merlin ran as he’d never run before.

He could feel his eyes burning gold as his magic commanded the storm not to stand in his way, and, oh, dear, his magic was a mess, wasn’t it?

But he kept on running.

He wasn’t even paying attention to directions anymore; he could feel a formidable force calling him anyway, dragging him to the Lake of Avalon, probably, and did not find the strength in himself to oppose himself to it.

 _Let it be Arthur,_ he begged.

Predictably, his feet led him to the lake, and Merlin was stunned to see that, while a storm was raging inside the forest, disrupting its usual faery-like atmosphere, the lake’s water, on the other hand, was perfectly smooth. It was as though the storm, for some reason, did not quite reach the water, instead halting at its borders. As though a magic of some sort were keeping the sacred place safe from the wind and the rain and all the rest. There was undeniably magic at work, here.

And then… and then, there he was. There _it_ was: a gleam of gold emerging from the water. Gold glowing silver under the moonlight, perhaps similarly to Merlin’s own eyes when they blazed of the same colour in the dead of night. For a few seconds, Merlin just – remained there. Staring. Until reality finally collided with his spirits, and Merlin realised, _he’s here_. And – ran.

He did not care that he was disrupting the order of things, disrupting this harmony meant to welcome the Once and Future King back into the world of the living. This was his friend out there, his best friend, his soulmate, his _everything_ , and he was going to get him _back_.

And so he did.

Merlin’s nightly and daily fantasies regarding he and Arthur’s reunion had been numerous, but very much flawed, because they had lacked realism. Indeed, they had each been strongly ethereal, as most dreams were, while this – this, now that Merlin had entered and disrupted the order, was anything _but_.

There was nothing ethereal and faint about the way that Arthur’s chainmail felt against Merlin’s fingers as he clasped it into a fist, nor about the way Arthur’s body felt against his own – strong, solid, and _real_. Merlin could _feel_ his Arthur, all heavy chainmail and strong torso; he could _smell_ him, this scent of steel and horse and that other scent, oh so characteristic of Arthur, that damned and blessed scent that had made it impossible for Merlin, with his previous friends and lovers, to pretend that it had been his king in their stead; and he could _hear_ him, hear his gasp of surprise, half-relieved, half-sobbing, as Merlin’s body crashed with his, could also hear his rapid breathing, and his sigh as he was being held; most of all, though, Merlin could hear his own name, being repeated over and over again, _Merlin Merlin Merlin_ , it went, as some sort of litany, and he could feel more tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, because when had been the last time anyone had said his name that way? And he said the warlock’s name as though it were all that mattered, as though _Merlin_ were all that mattered, and it was absurd, of course it was, and yet Merlin couldn’t stop himself, and so, for a couple of seconds, he chose to believe it; chose to believe that he truly, genuinely _mattered_. Merlin couldn’t see his king yet, tucked as he was into his embrace, and yet he did not dare look up at him, because that would have meant letting go of him, and each time he did that, in his dreams, then Arthur disappeared once more, or his face was replaced with another man’s, or, worse, with Arthur’s own uttering a snarl as he hissed, _sorcerer_. Merlin shivered, and grabbed the chainmail tighter, wondering if it was possible to remain locked in this instant forever.

He’d always wondered how he had managed to be so light-headed, all those centuries ago, and how he had managed to wrap himself into a false feeling of security each time Arthur was in proximity to him, but now? Now, he got it, he got it, because with Arthur here in his arms, he left like the most powerful man alive.

No, this was in no way like in his dreams; this was realer, and vaguely, Merlin wondered whether it was just one particularly enticing vision created by his magic.

But then – then _Arthur held back_.

Something he had seldom done in his dreams before, and that made Merlin, in turn, gasp in surprise. Arthur was _responsive_ , filled with a will of his own, unlike this limp, obedient figure that he had been in his visions. Arthur was – _there_. And Merlin could tell that it was truly him by the way that his arms wrapped firmly around his waist, pressing the warlock closer, his defiant stance saying to the universe and those beyond: _I’m not letting go_. Merlin could also tell by the familiar and yet distant way that one of his hands ran up his neck, clutching the nape of his hair, and then, his grip softening, remaining there, with Merlin’s head held in his grip, Merlin’s life, Merlin’s soul. He could tell by the way that Arthur’s lips brushed the skin of his neck, his cheek, and finally the top of his head, as though trying to impregnate himself with all that was Merlin.

Merlin wept as he never had before, he wept for the friend he had lost, of course, but also, and mostly, for the one that had just been given back to him. He wept in grief and relief, in turmoil and joy, and found that he could not utter a single word. The sobs kept coming, and soon his entire being was trembling in Arthur’s arms, as only one thing remained firm: his grip on his king. He was a quivering mess in his friend’s arms, and, paradoxically, had never felt more whole, because in his own arms stood his king.

 _I was holding him as he left this world, and now I’m holding him again as he is reborn into it,_ Merlin mused. The thought left him surprisingly content.

That is, until he felt the king begin to pull back. At that instant, terror overwhelmed him, terror at the idea of _losing him again_ , because that’s what would happen, that’s what _always_ happened, and, oh, stars, couldn’t they just have a few more moments? Simply holding him would be enough, just a few more seconds so that Merlin could carve the memory inside his mind, his heart, his soul. Just a few more moments of peace before the roaring chaos caught up with them. _Allow me to be lost in time, just this once. To be lost in the moment. Lost in Arthur._

But Arthur was strong, _damn him_ , and soon, there was a small space between them, just enough to see the other, and although they were still holding each other, Merlin just couldn’t look. So he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the ground, or rather on the water, and refused to look up. _Hold me again, or leave_ , he thought.

“ _Mer_ lin,” a voice, _his_ voice, softly said, and he felt a thumb gently brush the skin of his chin, urging him to look up, “I want to see you. I want to see your face.”

Merlin choked back a sob, and he looked up, unable to resist both the touch and the words. _When have I ever been able to refuse you anything?_ His blue – or perhaps golden, he knew not – eyes met his king’s, and they remained there. Staring, gazing, acknowledging the other. They were still gripping each other strongly, regardless of the tempest raging around them, or rather the tempest that _had_ been raging, since it appeared to have stopped now, and neither one of them seemed to have the intention of letting go. For the first time in centuries, Merlin felt that somebody – Arthur – was looking at him and, well, _seeing_ him. The despair that he saw in Arthur’s eyes was similar to his own despair, that had never truly left him, and, for the hint of second, he thought, _maybe he’d understand_. _Maybe he and I are the same. Wouldn’t that be sweet?_

He could tell, from the sudden shift on Arthur’s face, that the king was about to say something, and he wanted to listen, truly, he did, but that’s when his bad luck decided to intervene: Merlin shivered, and, sensing that a sneeze was coming, tilted his head downwards.

And, well – he sneezed.

A few instants passed, when neither one of them said anything, and then Merlin looked back up, turning curious eyes on Arthur, wondering what his reaction would be, and trying to repress a tiny grin of his own. Their current positions being as they were, he was reminded of a particular memory of his youth: a young boy gazing up at the prince of Camelot with defiance in his eyes, asking: _how long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?_ Back then, Arthur had laughed in disbelief and clear arrogance, but now... now, Merlin could only stare as his king’s face brightened and a laugh, fond and happy, left his throat. The chuckles were infectious, and, quickly, Merlin found himself laughing as well. For a couple of seconds, that’s all they were – two fools roaring with laughter in the aftermath of a storm, half of their bodies immersed in the water. That’s what anyone looking at them would have thought of the scene, anyway.

To Merlin, however, things were much different… because in all of his years on Earth after Arthur’s death, never before had a laugh left his throat so easily.

“Gods above, Merlin,” Arthur breathed as finally he managed to stop laughing. His hand had slipped from his chin to come and rest on his neck once more, and when Arthur brought their foreheads together, Merlin was stunned by the intimacy of the gesture. Arthur was holding him as if he were something precious, something he would never willingly part from. “I’ve only just returned, and already you’re interrupting me? Show a man some mercy!”

Though their foreheads had parted, they were still very close to each other, and there was no mistaking the mirth in Arthur’s eyes.

Naturally, Merlin retorted. “Normal people say _bless you_ , Sire.”

A glint of mischief danced in his king’s eyes and Merlin braced himself for the worst. When Arthur’s fingers slightly tugged at one of his ears, more playfully than anything, really, he shouted, “Oi!”

“Still think that I’m _normal_?” Arthur defied, clearly insulted by the use of the term, since Mr Once and Future King considered himself to be anything but.

“Nah, you’re not. Normal people aren’t such obnoxious _prats_!”

Their easy banter, though in some ways similar to that of their first days as master and servant, was now much more meaningful than it had been then, each word pronounced with unconcealed amusement and fondness. There was no true heat to their words. It was all simply a way to find the other again, a way to say, _here you are, here_ we _are_.

“Merlin, you’re crying.” Apparently, the tears hadn’t stopped flowing despite their easy banter, and now, Merlin could indeed feel them, warm drops of water running down his cheeks, leaving a salty taste on his lips.

“’M not. ‘S the allergies.”

“ _Allergies?_ ” Arthur repeated, clearly perplexed by the word. “What on Earth are you on about?”

Merlin smiled softly, shaking his head. He rose a tentative hand to brush Arthur’s hair. “You really are here,” he murmured.

Whatever mockery or kind rebuttal he had been expecting, it did not come. Instead, Arthur’s arms circled around Merlin’s body once more, the king somehow managing to tuck the warlock’s head underneath his own, and he just… held him. Held him there against him. Merlin released a sigh he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and finally relaxed his stance. Here, in Arthur’s arms, it felt as though destiny itself could not reach him. A bit more certain now that Arthur wouldn’t disappear, he slightly loosened his hold on the king, simply _staying_ there, against him, happy to feel him.

“You’re shivering, Merlin.”

“ _You’re crying, Merlin, you’re shivering, Merlin_ ,” he quoted. “My, you’re surprisingly bright in this lifetime, aren’t you? I guess they wanted to make up for the last time.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” the king retorted, though there was, once more, no true heat to his words. Merlin was actually fairly certain that anyone who wouldn’t speak their language would have thought that Arthur had just said, _I miss you_ , or something of the sort.

Arthur pulled back from the embrace, but still kept an arm wrapped around his friend’s waist. And Merlin just held Arthur wherever he could, unwilling to let go just yet. The warlock almost sobbed at how achingly familiar the words were to his ears. Together, they walked back to the shore, their walk paced by the regular occasions on which Merlin stumbled, and Arthur’s mumbles of _idiot_ as he caught him and pulled him back to his feet.

Once they were finally out of the water, Merlin began to realise how cold it had actually been – it _was_ the middle of freezing Winter, after all –, and he shot Arthur a worried look. When he had died, the king had already been cold from the loss of blood, then from death itself; he now had no idea of the state his king had been given back to him in.

“Are you feeling… cadaver-like?” Merlin hesitantly asked, instinctively checking the temperature on Arthur’s forehead.

“ _Cadaver-like?_ ” Arthur repeated, almost disbelievingly. He then swatted Merlin’s hand away, seeming like he was resisting the urge to slap his own forehead in despair. “Poor Gaius must be turning in his grave.”

But as soon as the words were uttered, his face became solemn, probably at the thought of the physician’s death, and he glanced down at the ground almost shamefully.

“He lived long,” Merlin found himself forced to say, wishing that he could swipe that expression from Arthur’s face. “He was a great advisor to the queen, and died knowing that he had contributed in making Albion a better place.”

“Good,” Arthur nodded, a bit absently. “Good.” He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Merlin, you – “

But Merlin continued. Now, he felt duty-bound to tell Arthur of the fate of his other loved ones. Wasn’t that his duty as a servant, after all? He had had Arthur all to himself for the last couple of minutes. Now was time to make room for the others. He blinked furiously, trying to attenuate the sting in his eyes. “Leon and Gwen lived well. I mean, they grieved you, as everybody did, but in the end – in the end, they did what had to be done. They lived and served Albion in your memory. You should have seen the kingdom Gwen built, Arthur. Where your father was made cruel by grief, _she_ became stronger and eager to do good. The years with her as a queen were the most peaceful years Camelot ever knew. She was a fantastic queen.”

“Merlin – “

“It was particularly hard for Percival. See, he lost Gwaine, too. Had no family. No real home. He didn’t live an easy life, though the gods know that he deserved one. And – ”

“ _Merlin!_ ”

“What?” Merlin turned to him, slightly annoyed. Did he not care to hear all those things? Or did he not want Merlin to be the one to tell them? He had tried to keep his tone as neutral as he could, but he had probably failed in doing so, which would explain Arthur’s anger.

His king’s eyes, however, were deadly serious as they scanned Merlin’s body thoroughly. “Merlin, you’re still shivering. You’ll catch your death out there. I mean, what are you even _wearing_? What did you _think_?”

Now that he had stopped talking, Merlin began realising how cold he indeed was. He could also feel that a great deal of his own magic had been spent, rendering him weakened by the effort. Merlin remained voiceless for a few seconds, causing Arthur to grow agitated. The king took a few steps towards him, clearly ready to catch him should he fall at any moment, and Merlin simply quirked an unimpressed eyebrow. Arthur was the one who’d been dramatic enough to come back in a _lake_ , so his behaviour towards Merlin was frankly preposterous. If anyone out of the two of them was going to collapse, it was more likely to be the king.

“Idiot,” Arthur swore all the same, eyeing Merlin’s shivering, seemingly displeased with it, “don’t you dare die on me now that I’ve just returned. I’m warning you, Merlin.”

Once more: preposterous.

“ _You_ died in _my_ arms,” Merlin thought good to remind him, trying to control the sudden shaking of his voice at the mention of Arthur’s death. If he’d been told, as Arthur had been dying in his arms, that fifteen hundred years later, they would come to joke about it, he doubted he would have taken to the news well. He cleared his throat. “Therefore, _I_ get to make the death-related jokes, not you.”

“Ah, but I was reborn in yours,” Arthur replied easily. “I’d say we’re even, no?”

Merlin chuckled, though the sound was much more miserable than he had originally intended it to be, but then the laugh suddenly turned into a nasty cough, and Arthur shot him a glare as though he were the one responsible for it.

“ _Idiot_ ,” he hissed once more as the two began walking through the forest with Merlin pointing out directions, “you’re gonna get sick. And where’s that stupid neckerchief of yours? The one day it’s needed, of course, it’s nowhere to be seen. C’mon, Merlin, where _is_ it?”

“I’ve got loads at home, don’t you worry,” Merlin teased, shivering violently as he took another breath.

“That is no reassurance _at all_ ,” Arthur exaggeratedly said, causing Merlin to huff in exasperation. He did not deny the _worry_ part, however.

“There’s just no pleasing you, is there?”

All the way back to Merlin’s house – _their_ house? –, Merlin thought of Arthur, and nothing else. At times, he’d squeeze Arthur’s hand tightly, searching for the evidence that Arthur truly _was_ here, and Arthur would squeeze back, thumb tracing slow patterns on the skin of his wrist. And for a while, that was all there was: Arthur, Merlin.

No destiny, no immortality, no secrets, none of it.

Only the other mattered.

But the moment, alas, was over far too quickly, since already Merlin could see the structures of his house appear in front of them. Grey smoke was rising from the chimney, and Merlin’s gaze followed it, watching its ascend to the sky.

“Come on, _dollophead_ ,” Arthur said, though his tone was amused as he looked at Merlin intently, “watching the smoke from outside won’t make you any warmer.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, but quickened his pace all the same.

“You’ll be lucky if I let you inside, with that attitude,” he tried to threaten, but the look Arthur shot him told him that both he and the king knew that he was more likely to make sure Arthur entered his house, even if he had to force him to it. Merlin sighed. “Hurry up, then. I’ll make us both some tea.”

“ _Hurry up?_ You can’t just tell the King of Camelot to _hurry up_ , _Mer_ lin!”

But Merlin was no longer listening, because, now that they both stood on the doorstep, he was slowly realising that he would not _be making them both some tea_ , because they were not alone.

And he had not even told Arthur, bold in his selfish certitude that it was just the two of them, that they were all that mattered… except, they were not. A selfish part of him would have wanted Arthur and he to be the only remaining men of Camelot, only for the sake of having Arthur feel just like he did: lost. Only for the sake of having the two of them _be the same_ , and of having Arthur need him as much as Merlin needed his king. Something to make sure that they were somehow equal in their suffering, and so Merlin would not have been as much of a burden as he was now. But these, in addition to being fantasies, had been thoughts of the cruellest kind, towards Arthur _and_ his other friends. And the Merlin who had uttered them, the Merlin who had held these fantasies close to his heart... well, that was not a Merlin that Arthur would want to know. The warlock knew as much.

The creatures who wished for men to feel the same pain as they did simply for the sake of not feeling alone, were not loveable creatures. These creatures were akin to what Morgana had been close to becoming. They were something hateful. _Merlin_ was something hateful.

Now, he had had his hour by Arthur’s side, it being just the two of them, equal in their suffering. He had been more fortunate than he’d deserved, and now, he must learn to be content with it.

The warlock cleared his throat, bracing himself for the words that would change everything, that would make Arthur realise that he did not need Merlin any longer – not that he ever truly had. What would Arthur’s reaction be? he wondered. He’d been even happier than when he had seen Merlin, that much was certain. He had not as much embraced Merlin as embraced the scent of home, the fragrances of Albion. The warlock had simply been lucky to be the first one to see Arthur, that was all. But now… would he laugh in delight? Merlin was craving to hear that laugh again.

“Arthur? Listen, before we go in there, there’s something that you need to – “

But the door in front of them suddenly snapped open, revealing five knights and one radiant queen, and for a wild second, there was silence.

Perplexity.

Shock.

All of it quickly followed by euphoria – cries, tears, words of euphoria. Merlin was of the opinion that men were seldom more beautiful than when they were overwhelmed by emotions they could not control nor predict, and even less understand, whether those emotions be related to happiness or grief, to joy or sorrow… and so Merlin could only watch as the long-awaited reunion took place, with him standing on the side, staring, beginning to feel more and more like an outsider in his own home. He silently slipped into the hallway, taking advantage of his friends’ distraction to bolt, and headed for the kitchen where he would prepare some water for tea.

 _Outsider, outsider_ , some voice inside him hissed. It hurt. Merlin hugged himself awkwardly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

His hands were trembling as he put the kettle on.


	2. Intricate realities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin's not the only one having difficulties embracing the new situation. Many problems remain unsolved.  
> But there's a bit of a Christmas atmosphere, which is nice. :)

For a few minutes, Merlin just… stood there, watching them.

And he thought that they looked beautiful.

All huddled together near Arthur and the sofa he was sat on, gazing at him with warmth and mirth and relief in their eyes. They looked like one of those paintings you could find in the museums – Gwaine as the laughing uncle chuckling in his armchair, Leon as the more private family member whose feelings, suddenly, found themselves exposed, Percival as the protective cousin happy with the sight of all his loved ones kept in one place, Elyan as the mischievous brother watching the scene unravel with rare vulnerability, his relief poorly concealed, Lancelot as the noble friend whose heart was bursting with joy and pride on seeing the family reunited once more, Guinevere as the kind, altruistic wife who had naught but warmth in her eyes, and finally Arthur as the man who’d returned, the man who’d seen the shadows and yet also the man whom people looked at when they were looking for the light. They were together, touching, speaking, crying, and Merlin could almost see the bindings linking them to each other – he could see the brotherly love, the companionable love, the romantic love, and, most of all, that sort of _universal_ love, that love that had survived time and death and that linked men of ancient time, sole remnants of what their first life had been before tragedy had struck. That love that united even the most broken of families – because that’s what they were, wasn’t it?

A family.

Kin.

They had been torn apart by death, but now, they had found their way to one another again.

Merlin had to press a fist against his mouth to fight back a sob, because this – _how many times_ had he dreamt of it? His knees beginning to shake, he leaned against the wall, searching for balance, and kept _looking_.

And the more he looked, the more he saw. As he stared a little closer, he could see more than just a family painting – he could see the skeletons crawling underneath: the tankard of ale dancing in Gwaine’s hand, the horse’s reins held firmly by Leon’s grip, the iron, heavy chainmail covering Percival’s chest, the smith’s hammer commanded by Elyan’s hand, the anonymous knight’s helmet tucked between Lancelot’s elbow and chest, the regal red dress adorning Gwen’s body, and, of course, the golden, gleaming crown resting on top of Arthur’s head. He could see the knights, the queen and the king. The last of Albion, sat in his living room. It felt as though they’d never changed, and they looked so beautiful together; they _fit_. And Merlin was pretty sure that, had they all come back during the second or third centuries of his life, then he would have eagerly joined them, would have eagerly rushed to the living room, dropping a comment about Arthur’s waist, and found himself a comfortable spot not too far from either Arthur or Lancelot or Gwaine, safe in the certitude that his loved ones were near him and that, _by all the gods_ , he would protect them this time and make sure they _lived_.

But that Merin had been young, two or three hundred years old at best, and at this point, he had still harboured the hope that he had the power to change things. That Merlin had been reckless – less so than he had been before Arthur’s death, but reckless still –, and he had wanted to believe that things still held meaning.

The actual Merlin had given up on that belief long ago. Now, he knew better.

 _They_ were beautiful, and _he_ was ugly. There was no concealing the devil among the heroes; hiding as a warlock had been one thing, but hiding as who he was now? It would not last. The _illusion_ would not last. He had to go.

Couldn’t he just watch, though? Watch for a little while longer, just for a few more seconds?

But the longer he watched, and the more difficult it got to leave. The longer he watched, and the more he _saw_.

As he looked closer, the skeletons’ bones got clearer. Merlin now saw the broken laughter in a joking knight’s eyes, the cry of sorrow in a possessed brother’s throat, the _farewell_ smile on a noble friend’s lips, the veil of grief on a widowed queen’s face, the white face of death on a fallen king’s body –

_He fell._

There were ghosts chattering in his living room, and yet the ghosts seemed livelier than him – they _were_ livelier than him.

He was an immortal man, but he had to admit that he was complete _shit_ at living.

“And here comes the tea,” sang Gwaine’s voice, causing Merlin to start. Two hands came to relieve him from the tray, and a shoulder amiably bumped with his. “Ta, mate!”

“Thank you, Merlin!” came Percival and Elyan’s voices from the living room. Merlin gave a tentative smile in return, still trying to soothe his wobbling knees. As a result of Gwaine’s friendly shoulder-bumping, the drenched fabric of Merlin’s collar was now pressed against his neck, actively reminding him that both he and Arthur ought to put some warm clothes on. He shivered.

“Did you use the one named after the Earl?”

Surprised to hear Gwaine’s voice so close to his ear, Merlin turned to his friend to see him eye him closely, an eyebrow quirked as he awaited his answer.

“The – the _Earl_?” Merlin repeated, and he heard Elyan chuckle in the background.

“Y’know, the Earl’s tea.”

“Oh! Oh, yes. Yes, that’s the one I used.”

The look of pure delight on his friend’s face made Merlin smile more genuinely, and Gwaine eagerly returned the smile.

“Come on, mate, don’t you just stand there crying on your own. We’re all sad that Arthur’s back, there’s no denying it, but, oh, well, what’s there to be done about it? The least we can do is stick together, I think.”

Elyan’s voice piped in. “Are there, perchance, any of those delicious butter biscuits on that tray?”

“ _Elyan!_ ” Gwen chastised, hitting the knight on the leg, and a look of complete incredulity married the knight’s face as Percival snickered on the side.

But Merlin’s eyes widened at the words as he unintentionally looked for Arthur’s gaze. He instantly found it, and saw Arthur’s eyebrow quirked in a silent interrogation. _What’s wrong?_

“Food!” he blurted out. “You’ve got to eat something! You must be starving! Let me go get something, maybe I can heat up some soup while preparing something else – “

“Just _sit_ here, Merlin,” commanded Arthur, tone exasperated and yet fond.

“He’s right,” Leon supported. “Lancelot and I will cook something, yes?”

“Pizza,” was Lancelot’s only response – the knight _loved_ baking pizza, for some reason.

“And here comes Earl the Grey’s tea,” introduced Gwaine solemnly while placing the tray on the low, wooden table none too gently, the gesture funnily contrasting with the soberness of his voice. “Sit, Merlin. You’re making me nervous, standing there on your own.”

So Merlin knelt at the foot of the sofa Arthur and Gwen were sat on, half bending over the table to start serving some tea, finding solace in the action. He listened to the knights’ conversation with a distracted ear.

“ _Earl Grey_ , Gwaine,” Elyan was rectifying with a slightly mocking tone. “ _Earl Grey_. That’s _all_ you need to say.”

“Well, _ser knight_ , what if I want to do this properly?” Gwaine retorted, sounding affronted. Had Merlin not known him, he might have suspected him to be genuine in his faithfulness to social etiquettes and such; now, however, he knew that the knight was merely jesting, perhaps even provoking Arthur for old time’s sake.

But Arthur was barely reacting to the words, and Merlin, as he handed him his cup of tea, cast him a worried look. _You alright?_ For some reason, Arthur appeared annoyed, and Merlin found himself unable to interpret the brow he quirked back at him. He promised himself to ask Lance to keep an eye on him, before remembering that that was specifically what he had asked Gwaine to do before he had died, and suddenly Merlin was overwhelmed with a gigantic wave of guilt. He bit his lip, choosing otherwise. He wouldn’t ask anyone to look after Arthur this time, for he could not bear the thought of having any more deaths on his conscience. He’d given up on everything for Arthur once before, everything, including his friends and morals to some extent, and found himself now terrified at how close he had come to doing it all again. Had he learnt something?

“Hm… I’m pretty that the Queen herself says _Earl Grey_ ,” he heard Lancelot say, and the warlock frowned, wondering how they had come to discussing this topic.

“Oh, really, and how would _you_ know, you great genius? Have you ever been for tea at her place, I wonder?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t, but a good friend of mine has.”

There was a brief pause, before:

“MERLIN?!”

Merlin looked down at his lap, cheeks heating.

“ _No!_ ”

“How can that _be_?”

“Jesus, mate!”

“Can’t believe you kept that from us – “

“You should have told us that the _day_ we returned!”

“Now that’s just shameful – “

Feeling Arthur’s gaze on him once more, Merlin tilted his head upwards, and gave a tentative smile. “Yes, they’re always like this,” he declared, and the amused smile that danced on Arthur’s lips was the best answer he could possibly have asked for.

“Merlin?” Merlin glanced up at Gwen, and gulped on seeing the heat in her eyes.

“G-Gwen?”

The queen slipped down from the sofa to sit on the floor next to him, and shot him a disapproving look. “What were you _thinking_?”

“Thinking?” Merlin frowned.

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about! To run off in that storm, all on your own!”

“St-storm?”

Merlin glanced at the window, where the weather was now considerably calmer, and he smiled, somewhat lightly. At the sight of his smile, Gwen glared daggers at him.

“Oh, no, don’t you try to do this, Merlin Emrys – “

“You do know that Emrys is not actually my surname, right? It’s more of a – “

“ – you _saw_ this weather earlier, we _all_ did! Tree branches, floating everywhere, and dirt, flying in each and every direction, not to mention those horrid gusts of wind unrooting some of the trees – you saw it all as well as I did, Merlin, and you just – you just jumped out there, with no second thought! How _could_ you? We could have lost you out there, don’t you realise?”

Merlin… honestly didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. He could take care of himself; surely, they must know that. Frankly! People had stopped worrying for his sake a long time ago, either because they did not know him, and so didn’t care, or because they _did_ know him, and so knew what he was capable of. Emrys did not need help. That was a well-known fact. The mere idea that _Merlin_ the _wizard_ might need back-up was a derisive one to most people.

“Gwen,” Merlin tried to explain as calmly as he could. “I had to bring Arthur back. Do you understand? I had to bring him back, I just knew – ”

“But how _did_ you know? We all felt the ground shake, but thought no more of it, while you – you just went out there to endanger your life, all of it simply on a hunch! You can’t do that, Merlin!”

“A _hunch_?” Merlin shook his head, feeling his blood pounding through his temples. “This was no hunch! Don’t you – don’t you get it? I _had_ to do it, Gwen. I – I, I _felt_ it. This – this _breach_. My magic felt it, and it sort of went mad from there. I had to bring him back,” he repeated, all too aware of Arthur’s now attentive eyes on him.

“What do you mean, your magic went _mental_?” Gwen reached for Merlin’s wrist. “Did you somehow create – this? This, this storm?”

“I – I, I don’t think so.” Merlin felt uncomfortable speaking of this in Arthur’s presence, but he knew he owed it to Gwen to be honest. “Maybe? Wouldn’t be the first time. But I don’t think so. I think that the magic from Avalon, the very magic that brought Arthur back, somehow created this storm. And I think that Avalon sort of – _borrowed_ my magic, so to speak. That Arthur’s return demanded so much magic, and such a _deep_ kind of magic, that _my_ magic had to be solicited in order to make it happen.” That would also explain why Merlin was feeling so terribly drained, as though he would collapse any second… and also explain why he had such difficulty being master of his feelings all of a sudden, after centuries and centuries of practice at keeping them hidden and contained. “I – I could feel something gripping it, stirring it, amusing it, until, all of a sudden, I just _knew_. And then, I guess my magic sort of – cheered? And it all just went downhill from there. Sorry.”

He gave Gwen an apologetic smile.

“Merlin…” She gently rubbed the skin of his arm. “Please, don’t do that again. I don’t want you risking your life any longer; you’ve done plenty enough of that during your first lifetime. What you did tonight – it was too dangerous, Merlin. And we were so scared.”

At this instant, Merlin could have told her of a thousand tales to assure her that a storm was no true threat to him. He could have told her of that one time when he wrecked the slavers’ ship in the Pacific, or of that other time when he commanded the earth to shake underneath the tips of his fingers. But he did no such thing. Instead, the words that left his mouth did so naturally.

“Gwen, the storm let me pass, and I don’t think it was a mere coincidence. I think it was meant to be – “

– _me._

Merlin bit his lip. “Meant to be.”

 _It wasn’t meant to be_ you _,_ he had to remind himself. _You are not meant to do anything, not meant to_ be _anything, any longer._

Suddenly, he could feel the shivers running over his body more acutely, probably mostly related to the excessive, reckless use of his magic, and he cleared his throat, ignoring Arthur’s pointed gaze. “I’ll just, err – go and put on some dry clothes.”

“Me as well,” he vaguely heard Arthur say, but already Merlin’s attention had drifted elsewhere.

Shivers running down his spine, he found himself leaning closer towards the fireplace, seeking warmth. He could hear his friends speaking in the background, but could not seem to pay attention to their words – it was all just… blurred. It had been quite a while since he’d used that much magic all at once, so it rather made sense that his body should pay the price of it now. It did not mean that he had to like it. That, he remembered, was why he scarcely ever used his powers to their full extent – though he did not yet know how high that extent went –, unless, of course; he was in the presence of somebody whom he could trust to take care of him afterwards. He could recall many occasions, during his first centuries, on which he had made the mistake of using too much magic at once, and ended up in a state of the highest vulnerability. It had rarely ended well. Quickly, Merlin had learnt to hide that vulnerability of his, because he knew that if he didn’t, then his enemies would take advantage of it, no doubt. Even when he was aching from the inside, exhausted and drained, well, he had to uphold the appearances. Here, surrounded with his friends, he wanted nothing more than to let his guards down, but he knew that this was a thing he could not afford to do.

 _Hold on_ , he thought. _Wait until you’re alone. After a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel better. You always do._

But the room felt so _cold_.

Merlin turned to the fireplace and leaned towards it, impulsively beckoning the flames to come and stretch towards him, vaguely thinking, _come and make me warm_ … but they did none of it. Instead, they barely twitched, as though acknowledging his powers, no more, no less. They then turned even paler than they had been before, causing Merlin to grimace unhappily.

He felt irritated, as irritated as he’d been at each failing tentative to master specific spells, and waved a hand at the flames in an impatient gesture similar to that of a child whose magic would disobey. _C’mon, then!_ Usually, a simple glance and a thought were sufficient to make nature reply to him – no, actually, usually, simply a _feeling_ of his would suffice –, but it seemed that here, he’d have to wave. The flames grew redder, and even swelled for a while, but all too quickly, they were back to their original shape. Just as the flames vaguely reacted, then went limp, he could feel the gold flicker into his eyes briefly before vanishing quickly. It felt… cold.

 _Answer me!_ Merlin thought strongly. “ _Forbærne_ ,” he resigned himself to whispering, a slight, sardonic smile finding its way upon his lips at the thought of the similar word _forlorn_ , a word that suited him quite well. Merlin didn’t like ordering the objects around him, no more than he liked ordering the magic that lay inside of him, since he had more pleasure in interacting with nature than in seeing it submit itself to his will, but he _had_ to admit that it felt nice to have the flames finally grow stronger, not recoiling this time. It felt nice to have control on at least _one_ thing. Well, it felt nice _when_ it happened, but afterwards, when Merlin felt himself swaying backwards ever so slightly, it felt… considerably less nice.

Maybe not a such good idea to use his magic, then.

He felt a firm body press against his back, stopping his fall, and an arm snaking around his waist, keeping him steady. The feeling of being held so wasn’t unpleasant. “Idiot,” a fierce voice whispered against his ear – _Arthur_. “Just because he’s a warlock, thinks he can go around lighting a fire with a mere flick of his hand… _really, Merlin?_ ”

“You didn’t complain about it on all those hunt trips you took me on, did you?” Merlin retorted, before realising what exactly it was that they were doing. They were exchanging _banters_ , banters about Merlin’s _magic_. His magic, which he had just used in front of Arthur. He gasped.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s tone was concerned, and Merlin could feel Gwen and the knights’ gazes on him as well. He swallowed, and then Arthur was tugging him upwards, making them both stand up. As much as he tried not to lean too much of his weight on Arthur, Merlin could not help it. Again, it felt nice.

“Nah, nothing,” he said, laughing nervously. “’M just feeling a bit weak, ‘tis all.”

“Nothing different from usual, then,” Arthur said, but they both knew that it was neither true nor funny. There was a frown on Arthur’s face. “Where should we go?”

As they’d kept talking, Arthur had apparently been leading him to the corridor, and Merlin realised that they would find themselves alone, just the two of them, for a _second_ time, something that neither the knights nor Gwen had yet had with Arthur.

“Er, second room on the left.”

Arthur kicked the door open with his foot, and Merlin glared and kicked him lightly in return. In retaliation, the king found nothing better to do than insult his flames.

“Your fire was ugly, by the way.”

“Was not!”

“Mh, yes, it was. The flames were too big. They looked fake.”

“They most certainly did _not_!”

“Well, I prefer that blue light of yours,” Arthur said conversationally, although there was some unmistakable uneasiness to his gaze.

Merlin chose to ignore that remark, instead focusing on searching inside his cupboard, pretending to ponder about what clothes he could give Arthur when, in truth, he had prepared everything related to Arthur’s return centuries and centuries ago. He’d kept his red tunic intact thanks to a couple of spells, and had done his best to preserve the scent of it as well.

“Here,” he muttered, tossing the clothes onto the bed, then turning to Arthur to take off his armour.

He gulped, and suddenly the memories came flashing into his mind.

A young, inexperienced servant, clumsily tying the laces of an arrogant prince’s chainmail to prepare him for some silly tournament.

A more-than-a-serving-boy growing to like this prince more and more as the days went, tying the laces with growing confidence, joking about this and that and thriving in the sight of Arthur’s grins.

A friend, grieving a father and standing by a friend, not even thinking of what he was doing anymore, simply looking at his prince in the eye and vowing never to leave him.

A best friend dressing his king for battle, his brave and beautiful king, hating to leave him but incapable to stay. _How many times have you questioned that choice? How many times have you wondered if things would have been different, had you stayed by his side?_

“You know,” Arthur said conversationally, “I never could stand it when George was the one doing it.”

Merlin could feel him searching for his gaze – after all, all of those times when Merlin had been dressing and undressing him, it hadn’t been rare for their gazes to collide and remain locked for long, meaningful seconds –, but he did his best to avoid it, instead focusing on the movements of his fingers. The gestures came naturally, and he was a bit frightened to realise that he had already finished half of it.

The memory of that last time he had prepared Arthur for battle would not leave his head, and it upset him immensely to realise that the very amour he was taking off now, _he_ had been the one to put it on _originally_. It felt odd, to think that he was achieving, more than a thousand years earlier, a task that he should have been achieving the night after the battle.

_I dressed him for war a thousand years ago, and today, I’m taking off his chainmail._

Would all the things between them now feel like they were part of a cycle, too?

_Dead in my arms, reborn in them. Dead in this chainmail, reborn in it. I can almost smell the blood on it._

He _died_ in these clothes. Suddenly, an urge to _burn_ them overwhelmed the warlock.

“Merlin…?”

“How can you stand it?” he asked, barely containing his anger. “To be in those clothes? Those clothes you… died in?”

“Well, you’re taking them off now, aren’t you?” Arthur somewhat jokingly replied, but Merlin did not recoil.

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Arthur sighed. “I do.” He gently grabbed both of Merlin’s hands, interrupting his movements, and urged him to look at him. Merlin conceded to it, and hated the look that Arthur had in his eyes. He had that look that he usually had when he was about to tell Merlin about one of his _warrior topics_ , when he was preparing to shower him with grand words and pretty principles. _He still thinks of me as a child_ , Merlin realised. “Merlin…” Arthur softly began, and _why was he acting like he was the elder when Merlin had been living a hundred more lives than he had, and more?_ Why was Merlin the child, here? “Merlin, there’s nothing shameful in death. Nothing shameful in the thought of a life ending. Death doesn’t… scare me anymore. Do you understand? No king – no _man_ – could ask for a better death than the one I got. For a nobler death. I was slayed on the battlefield with a sword in my hand and victory at arm’s reach.”

“Except you _weren’t_!” Merlin cried, withdrawing from Arthur’s grasp. “You weren’t, Arthur! _You_ died in _my_ arms on _our_ way to Avalon! _That_ is what happened! And you weren’t supposed to – you weren’t supposed to die that way! Not that early! You weren’t supposed to die in Camlann, and we – we should’ve done better!” _I failed you,_ he almost said, but he stopped himself on time. “All of this needless tragedy – we could have avoided it! But the fact remains, you died in my arms, Arthur, not on some goddamn battlefield. You died in my arms, you died badly, you died hideously, and yet the bards had to turn it into something beautiful. Because that’s what they do, isn’t it? They twist the truth and turn something unfair into something necessary! All the stories will speak of is how you died on that battlefield, oh-so-nobly – that’s _all_ they’ll ever speak of! You call this great, Arthur? Well, this isn’t how it happened! It wasn’t _pretty_ when you died, much less heroic! When you died, your skin was cold as ice and your limbs kept shivering. You tried to hold me, but I could feel the distinct moment when you _stopped_ trying – because your strengths wouldn’t allow it. You died, Arthur. Life left your body. You could barely speak. You winced each time you moved. You struggled to keep your eyes open. Your voice _broke_. This was not great – _death_ , is not great. The stories make it so to keep the people brave, but it’s all just one great lie we tell each other, generation after generation. Death is lonely, and ugly, and the bards know none of it. None of how it felt to hold you and feel your skin become colder and colder until there was no more life running underneath it. The bards know _nothing_ of it, and you? You – you had the easy part, Arthur. Don’t you dare forget it.”

How long had it been since he’d felt that much anger? Merlin wondered.

Oh, the anger was overwhelming.

“Merlin…” Arthur began, something undecipherable in his tone, but Merlin abruptly shook his head, all too aware of the tears shining in his eyes.

Once he got the chainmail off Arthur’s body, all of it in a heavy silence unlike the easy banter they used to have, he proceeded to lead Arthur to the bathroom so he could have a probably long-awaited bath. Merlin had chosen to pour him one, favouring it to the shower; he’d figured it would be a smoother transition for Arthur from Middle Age to… well… _this_.

“Merlin – “

“Call me if you need anything,” Merlin cut him before he could add anything, and he promptly left.

.

Watching as the rain poured heavily outside the window in the corridor, Merlin found himself thinking back upon the words he had exchanged with Arthur.

He and death, they went back a long way.

They went back a long way, and knew each other better than most siblings did, better than most humans did about _themselves_ in one short lifetime. Merlin knew death, he knew her from having lost his loved ones to her grip to having nearly lost _himself_ to her depths… that is, before being ultimately brought back to the world of the living. He _knew_ death; knew how it felt, with worrying intensity, to be swallowed by something much bigger than yourself, and dark, and hungry, only to be spat back into something much worse a few moments later. Life.

He knew death and knew the dead. Knew how heavy the bodies were and how cold the skins became as death clung her claws into men’s souls, refusing to let go. Knew how it felt the moment he understood that the person was lost for good, that there was no more hope left, nothing, just a void. Knew the silence, the unbearable silence, sometime between the yelling and the attempt to mourn. This silence, this time of realisation when everything pointed to the fact that a life was over. This time of realisation when he looked at the face in his lap and felt… lonely. Like the loneliest man on Earth. He knew death’s tricks as well; knew of the tricks that consisted of giving men hopes, giving them dreams, ideas that things might just get better, _just this once_ , before abruptly reminding them that in this world, _there were no happy endings_. Merely sparky middles, and, if one got lucky, very merry beginnings indeed.

Merlin _knew_ , because he had seen. Seen, and heard, and smelled, and felt. He had held more dying men than he could count, and cried over more souls than he liked to remember. Loss was a part of him now, and he had long ago lost the hope of being capable of mourning. All he did now was… endure. Death had been dancing close to him for a very long time, close to his loved ones, snatching them from him eventually, and yet Merlin still hadn’t figured her out. Why did she keep refusing him? That was a question he’d been asking himself for centuries.

But now that his friends had come back to him…

Now that they’d come back, Merlin was _terrified_.

One thing he’d learnt, with much hardship, but had learnt all the same, was that, ultimately, he would lose people. This was how things worked. He could not _own_ people; he could merely have them for a time, and even then, they weren’t entirely his to keep, since death had reserved herself the right to collect them at any time. _People were not his to keep_ , but they were death’s to take. Therefore, they were not his to love either, because Merlin – Merlin was a man who loved _forever_. He had loved many people, of course, but none with the same recklessness as he had with the ‘old ones’: Gwen, Lancelot, Gaius, Gwaine, many others, and, needless to say, Arthur. People were taken, people died, that’s what they did, and Merlin had sworn to himself never to lose sight of that again. But now that they were back, he was terrified by how easily he seemed to fall back into ancient habits. Terrified by how easily he seemed to laugh alongside Gwaine, and lean into Gwen’s embraces, and tell Lancelot of his secrets. It shouldn’t be so _easy_ , but it was, and was therefore all the more dangerous. It wasn’t _right_. It felt like a lie, like one big deception: the immortal, hardened warlock disguising himself as Merlin the goofy servant. It was not _right_ , neither to them, nor to himself, and it was grotesque, and ridiculous, and ugly. But this was not the worst thing, oh, no. The worst thing was – they’d come back. Been brought back, rather. Who by? To what purpose? Merlin had no clue. The only word that came into his mind was, _destiny_. _Destiny wants to toy with us again. Destiny has gathered us in her arena once more, and is sitting in the boxes, watching,_ thriving _._ And Merlin thought, _no. I won’t let her do that again. I won’t let myself do that again._ If he played this game once more, then he would lose – again. He would make his mistakes, since destiny seemed to bring out the worst in him, and his friends would be the ones to pay the price. He would fail them, as he had failed them before… and this time, _they would not come back_.

 _This_ , as Merlin saw it, ought to be their chance, no matter what destiny had to say about it. Their chance at a lifetime with no warlock interfering with their lives, claiming destiny as a poor, poor excuse for his actions. Their chance at _normal_ lives.

And in no way was Merlin going to stand in the way of that. He had done enough damage already. In more aspects than he could count, he had failed. Now, he had to do the right thing: step away, and let them live the few years that were imparted to them.

“Merlin?”

Merlin caught a glimpse of Arthur’s reflection in the window, and his heart practically jumped inside his chest. He hated that he seemed to be unable to look away, eyes revelling in the sight of his king, alive and well. The red tunic that Arthur was wearing made Merlin fancy himself back in Camelot, centuries earlier, about to engage in a battle of jests of some sort with his king and friend. _Where are my flowers, then?_ Merlin, probably distracted with some issue regarding Arthur’s safety, would simply shrug and hum noncommittally. _Flowers?_ Arthur would take a few steps closer, invading Merlin’s personal space in the most delicious way there was, and making it now completely impossible for Merlin to carry on ignoring him. Arthur always disliked being ignored. _Well, as your benevolent prince, surely I must deserve some token of your devotion._ Merlin idly wondered how Arthur would have reacted, had he kissed him on the cheek. _Is that token enough of my devotion for you, Sire?_ Merlin almost chuckled, already picturing the expression of utter bafflement that would be likely to dawn on Arthur’s face.

“Merlin?”

He started, forcing himself to leave his reveries, and spun on his heels to briefly face Arthur. He regretted it as soon as his heart began racing furiously inside his chest. Even wearing a simple, red tunic allied to a pair of black sports’ trousers, Arthur looked every bit like the king he knew him to be. His blonde hair shone silver underneath the moonlight, akin to a crown gleaming like diamond, and his eyes, blue as the clearest sky in summer, were just… gazing. Unwaveringly. Had Arthur always looked at him like that? Merlin wondered.

He did not like to be gazed at.

“Sire,” he cleared his throat. The title didn’t sound absurd, but it didn’t sound right either. “I, err – Gwen’s got a double bed in her bedroom. Err, _your_ bedroom,” he corrected himself, stumbling over his words. “If you’re tired. Which you must be. Surely.”

Arthur seemed every bit as uneasy as he was, if not more. “Leon said something about – pizza?” His tone was tentative, and his eyes were conciliatory.

“Oh! Oh, yeah.” Merlin laughed nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck, looking down. “He hated that things were all of a sudden so _awkward_ with Arthur, contrarily to how they had been when they’d just found each other again. “Yeah, of course, sorry, I just – yeah. Well, they finally know how to start the oven, so it should be quicker than the last times, when they tried to figure it out on their own. If you’re too hungry, which again, you must be, I can get you something else. I’ve got bread, cheese. Fruits.”

“No, I – I can wait.” Arthur took a few steps closer, stance hesitant, before finally leaning against the wall, facing Merlin with his own body. Merlin swallowed and busied his hands with the sleeve of his red jumper, playing with the fabric. His hair was still wet from the short shower he’d taken after leaving Arthur to bathe, and he did his best to refrain a few shivers that were, he was ashamed to say, not entirely caused by the cold. Arthur was watching him closely, and he was not yet used to that new feeling. He wondered, once more, if this was a new habit of Arthur’s, or if he’d just never been the subject of anyone’s gaze since he’d lost his king. Either way, it felt odd. And uncomfortable. And nice. Which made no sense. “Say,” Arthur asked, “what is _pizza_?” He did not seem particularly interested in the meaning of the word itself, most likely searching for a neutral topic to discuss, but Merlin was grateful for the distraction and he was quick to answer.

“Well, see that dough we use for bread? We use a similar one, something we call – base. And then we put things on it. Edible things. Of course. Such as – tomato sauce, and cheese, and often meat or vegetables, oh, and mushrooms, of course. You can choose to bake it whichever way you want to – you just add whatever ingredients you like to eat. And then you just put it in the oven, and, _tada_! You can eat it. It’s usually very tasty.”

“ _Usually?_ ”

“Well,” Merlin looked down at his feet again, cheeks slightly blushing, “Leon and Lancelot mean well, and they’re not _bad_ cooks, but… they’re just not… not yet entirely acquainted with kitchen equipment.”

At this specific instant, Lancelot’s voice called from the kitchen:

“LEON, YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SMACK THE DOUGH WITH THE ROLLING PINT!”

“Anyone said anything about a _pint_?” Gwaine’s voice piped in, followed by the usual, “Shut up,” on Elyan’s part.

Arthur chuckled lowly, and Merlin smiled slightly.

“But they’re doing great,” Merlin quickly added, nodding at himself as he spoke. “They’re all doing great. Getting more and more used to this era – so, really, you’ll be used to it as well in no time.” _You’ll be fine without me_ , were his thoughts that remained unvoiced. He smiled at Arthur, hoping that his smile did not seem too desperate.

Arthur stared at him intently for a few more seconds, before sighing softly.

“Merlin? Can you look at me?”

Merlin looked at him and tried not to think about how nice it would be to drown in those eyes.

“You were… right.” Arthur chuckled, somewhat sadly. “Which… should not come as a surprise to either of us, given the number of times you’ve spoken truly and I’ve ignored it in the past.” The sadness and guilt that was in Arthur’s tone made Merlin want to touch him, hold him, even _kiss_ him, but he dared not, so chose to keep silent. “You were right, Merlin. Death is not beautiful, even less glorious, and I am nobody to lecture you on such matters. Nobody.”

“Arthur… it’s okay.” _You’re not nobody, you’re_ everything _,_ he thought, but once more, he said none of it.

“It’s not,” Arthur insisted, shaking his head stubbornly. “It really _is not_. But… it will be. I’ll make it so.” He sounded like he was making some sort of promise, and Merlin simply nodded, because he didn’t understand much of what was going on. When Arthur next spoke, his voice was low. “And… I did have the easy part. Dying, and being held. By you.” The intimacy of his words made Merlin tremble, and he was sure that Arthur could see it, now. He felt vulnerable, more vulnerable than he’d felt in years.

“You told me to hold you,” Merlin whispered, and he could see the scene, could see the blood and the chainmail and the blue eyes gleaming in the darkness, eyelids fluttering, and Merlin’s own eyes were stinging now, and if Arthur said another word – if he said another word, then maybe he’d collapse into tears.

“I did.” They were both whispering now in spite of being the two only men standing in the corridor. And they were close. So close. “I…” Arthur took a deep, shuddering breath, and then he said, all in a whisper: “I _loved_ dying in your arms, Merlin, but hated, hated leaving you out there, alone in this world, for grief and bitterness to feast upon your heart. And gods, I knew you could manage, knew you were not only more powerful than any man alive, but also brave, brave and strong, and yet – yet the thought of you being alone in that great, cruel world… that thought scared me beyond words. Do you hear me? I loved dying in your embrace, but hated leaving you behind, hated leaving you when we’d said so little –”

Arthur’s voice broke, and Merlin, taking a few steps towards Arthur, whose eyes looked desperate, as though begging him to understand, laid a trembling hand on his arm. He never once looked away from his king’s eyes.

“I’d rather have you slay me here where I stand,” he whispered at Arthur, “than have you die on me one more time.”

His own voice was quivering as well, quivering but determined, and the way that Arthur looked at him did nothing to arrange that. _I know_ , said Arthur’s eyes. And a thousand other words that Merlin did not have the bravery to decrypt now.

The second that followed, Merlin and Arthur were, _predictably_ , closely entangled in the other’s tight embrace, hearts beating together, lungs filling with the same trembling movement. Arthur’s arms truly were paradise on Earth, Merlin mused, letting out a sigh that sounded like a sob.

They said little else, but held each other dearly.

.

“Your pizza tastes like _cardboard_ ,” said Elyan very smartly, before glancing at Merlin to check that he had not mispronounced the word. Merlin discreetly nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. When it came to learning new, modern vocabulary, Elyan was always quite enthusiastic.

“It most certainly does _not_!” Leon retorted, seemingly affronted.

Gwaine laid a compassionate hand on the knight’s shoulder. “Believe me, my friend, it does. I told you you should have put some ale in the paste, but you didn’t listen. Ale makes _everything_ taste better.”

“Just because you can put it in pancakes doesn’t mean you’re meant to put it _everywhere_ ,” Percival vividly protested, while removing the olives from his slice of pizza to discreetly sneak them into Leon’s plate.

“No, Gwaine, the ale is a terrible idea,” Elyan, ever the voice of reason, said. “What we _should_ have done, which was not for lack on my part of trying, is fold the base thing in two and _then_ put it in the oven.”

“He’s right,” Merlin said, shrugging when the knights’ gazes came on him, seeking his judgment. “People _do_ do that.”

“It’s odd,” Gwaine said, frowning. “It’s like folding your crepe or whatever it is you call those things that you cook.”

“Gwaine won’t fold his crepes,” Gwen whispered at Arthur.

“Because they don’t make sense!”

“Percival, will you stop putting your olives in my plate, please!”

“These don’t make sense either.”

“For once, I find myself wholeheartedly agreeing with Gwaine.”

“Wonders never cease, do they?”

“Elyan… you do know that you’re supposed to eat the cheese, right? It’s not just there for decoration.”

“I don’t like the yellow thing, it tastes funny. Does anyone want mine? Please, someone take it out of my plate.”

“We should have just made some soup. Would’ve been simpler.”

“Soup? For _Christmas_?”

“Jeez! There’s no need for you to sound so offended, Gwaine! It's not that big of a deal!"

"Not that big of a deal?!"

"Not to mention that most of the traditions here were unknown to us until Merlin told us about them, so I don't see why you're taking it all that much to heart. To me, this is just people making a great fuss about something that should be celebrated quite simply, with none of all those ridiculous artefacts."

“I still think that the pine tree in the middle of the room is just Merlin messing with us.”

“Not to mention the _socks_ thing!”

“But I saw moving pictures of it on _YouTube_! People putting things on it so it would shine and look nice!”

“Well, maybe Merlin _invented_ this YouTube thing, and is now controlling it. Have you thought of _that_?”

“ _Merlin invented YouTube?!_ Alright, mate, now you’ve got some serious explaining to do, cause some of the _videos_ that I saw there were _very_ disturbing – “

“You’re shivering,” said Arthur, lowly so as to be heard by Merlin only.

“No, I’m not,” was Merlin’s immediate answer, but then he met his king’s gaze, saw the gravity in them, the glint of awareness that said, _I know_ , and he looked down at his knees, allowing Arthur this one victory. “’S normal. Don’t worry about it.”

“Can I help?”

Merlin smiled, and the smile was sincere. “You’re already helping.” _You’re here. What more could I possibly ask for?_

“You’re ill because of me.”

“Clotpole! Not everything is about you.”

“But this is.”

The warlock looked up at his king, trying to reassure him with a smile. “It’s happened before, Arthur, and you weren’t there when it did. So trust me when I tell you that it’s fine. All I need is a good night’s rest, and then I’ll be as good as new.” He almost laughed at his own words, finding it quite ironic that a very, very old warlock should use the words _good as new_ to depict himself when, quite obviously, he was everything but. _Good as new._ Those were funny words. Neither _good_ nor _new_ could apply to him.

“Merlin… Your magic, did it… did it, for some reason, not agree with bringing me back? Was it somehow… _forced_ into it?”

At that, Merlin laughed. That was what upset him? Facing Arthur’s slightly annoyed gaze, he answered calmly: “Trust me, Arthur, if my magic hadn’t agreed, we would both know. See, it’s sort of the bossy sort.” Then it occurred to Merlin that maybe he oughtn’t speak of his magic so lightly, that maybe it would make Arthur uneasy – after all, he still didn’t know where Arthur stood regarding his powers.

But, against all odds, Arthur simply smiled, and Merlin was glad to see his face lose some of its prior stiffness. “Like you, then.”

“Yeah.” Feeling warmth surge within his chest, Merlin winked at his king. “And a bit like you, too.”

They smiled to each other, and for one moment, for one brief moment, Merlin fancied himself pretending that things were just like before.

That this was just another feast in Camelot, just one among countless moments of complicity between the king and the servant.

When the knights around the table roared in laughter even louder, his smile widened, and so did Arthur’s, as they wouldn’t take their eyes off the other.

But then there was Gwaine’s voice, calling from the other end of the table.

“How did it feel? To be brought back.”

A shudder ran over Merlin’s spine as he was once more reminded of the unpleasant truth: that everyone in this room, but him, had died.

“For me, it felt like vomiting ale,” Gwaine continued. “’Twas very unpleasant.”

Merlin wanted to tell Arthur that he did not have to answer that question, he wanted to provide him with the comfort he might need, but his throat was dry and he found himself unable to do anything but watch as the scene unravelled in front of him.

“’Tis hard to explain, really,” Arthur finally said, and although he wasn’t looking at him, Merlin knew that he had to be rubbing at his chin thoughtfully, and maybe even biting his lower lip.

“Please, do,” Elyan begged, “or else we’ll have to listen to Gwaine telling us all of his ale-vomiting-experience for the fifth time. I’m not sure I could bear it.”

The warlock could feel his king’s eyes searching for his, but he ignored them resolutely. Instead, he drank a bit of water, wincing as he tried to swallow. It was no easy job with a lump growing inside his throat.

“Well, it felt like… it felt like being locked into some sort of void for – for a lot of time. To be there, not really dead but not really alive either, and then, to suddenly find myself breathing once more. It felt like entering this room – no, this _world_ – filled of people and laughter and warmth. It felt like being held after years and years of loneliness.”

There was a short silence, and then a laugh from Gwaine.

“Well, then. It seems like you got the best rebirth, lucky you. And how about you, Leon? I don’t think you ever told us.”

And so the knights engaged in tales of their respective rebirths, while Merlin just sat there, hearing the words but incapable to make sense of them. Listening to these men, whom he’d loved, lost and mourned, speak so casually of that death that they shared, was… overwhelming, to say the least. They were speaking, sharing, and Merlin could tell by how they sounded that they could understand each other. They were _bonding_ over _death_.

Death, that had taken them so unjustly.

Death, that had taken everything from Merlin, everything but his life, everything but the one thing that he would have given willingly.

Death, that had wrapped her hands around Lancelot’s soul, and stepped her foot over Guinevere’s health, and plunged a sword deep within Arthur’s chest – nope. That last action he could not attribute to death, since _he_ had been the one to cause Arthur’s doom.

The reminder made him feel funny, and he found himself unable to blame the knights for speaking of their deaths so casually, his guilt replacing all former irritation he might have felt.

“What about you, Merlin?”

“Him?”

“Oh, yeah. He came back a few months earlier than us. That would have been in… August, or something? You never did tell us much about your return,” Gwaine said in a false tone of reproach.

“As fascinating as this discussion is,” suddenly said Gwen, “the dishes won’t do themselves, will they? And I could really use your help, Merlin.”

At this instant, Merlin loved his friend with all his heart.

.

“Thank you,” the warlock finally murmured after a few minutes of silence, while carefully placing the now dry plate in the cupboard. “I wasn’t – comfortable there.”

“I know,” Gwen kindly replied, and Merlin could hear the compassion in her tone. “I don’t like it when they speak of it either. Truth be told, I still get shivers at the thought of having been brought back so abruptly… and to have them discuss it as though it were so futile a thing… there are times when it’s hard to bear it. I can’t even fathom how hard it must be for _you_ , who outlived all of us.” She handed Merlin another plate, and as he grasped it, he could feel her gaze on his face, watching, assessing. “But… there’s more to it than that. I can tell.”

“Can you?” Merlin laughed.

But Guinevere didn’t. “Yes, I can. I know that look on your face. You’ve got better at mastering it, I’ll give you that, _but_ I can still tell that there’s something on your mind. I know you, Merlin. I may not know _all_ of you,” she gave him a pointed stare, “but I know enough to be able to tell that you are not alright.”

And, silly as it was, her words brought tears to Merlin’s eyes. “You do know me,” he murmured, and all of a sudden, he was remembering the long years that he had spent by her side, assisting her in her ruling of Camelot, could remember the grieving queen clutching the grieving warlock’s arm and murmuring, _I know_ , could remember being at her bedside as sickness took her, trying to muster the words, words to tell her how much she _mattered_ and how _sorry_ he was, how very, very sorry, and then her leaning towards him, kissing his cheek, and whispering, _I know_.

“I do, Merlin. I do know you.”

He guessed that there were some things that never changed, no matter the storms, no matter the wrecks.

Gwen had always been able to tell. Always been able to know. Always been able to hear the words that didn’t seem willing to leave his lips.

Always been able to tell the words that Merlin needed to hear.

“Gwen?” he asked, his voice a whisper.”

“Yes, Merlin?”

“May I… hold you? Just for a while?”

“Oh, Merlin,” and next he knew, there were arms closing around him and a soothing hand drawing circles in his hair and a head pressing against his neck and lips whispering kind words at his ear.

She was crying, he realised. He didn’t need to look at her to know that she was sobbing softly, nor did _she_ need to look at _him_ to know that there were the same tears dancing in his own eyes. They just… knew. Both of them.

“I’ve been missing you, Merlin,” his friend whispered against his ear. “So, so much.”

Merlin’s voice broke into a sob, and he tried to speak, but only a soft, broken wail came out. He was suddenly grateful that she couldn’t see his face.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” she soothed. “I know. It’s alright. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

And as they held each other, finding warmth and solace in the presence of the other, Merlin realised that this felt more like a reunion than any of the other embraces he had shared with the others – if one excluded Arthur, of course.

This felt – realer than anything he’d had with Gwen in the past. It felt authentic. It felt like finding his friend, his confidante, his sister, after years and years of loneliness, and finally finding that, yes, against all odds, they still knew each other. Their souls still _fit_.

It was a wonderful feeling.

This – this was Gwen. _His_ Gwen. Not just the queen, not just the serving girl. This was _all_ of Gwen, from the serving girl he’d met when he was in the stocks to the queen draped in white whose hand he had held as life had left her body. This was the friend he’d made and the queen he’d served. This was his friend, with whom he’d laughed at Arthur, loved Arthur, and finally grieved him. This was… Gwen. And they’d been through so much together.

Merlin clutched her tighter, and heard her exhale deeply.

“It’s hard for us both, isn’t it?” she whispered inside his ear, and Merlin could just _tell_ that the very same memories had been flowing through her own head. “We lost them. All of them. And now, we have to listen to them talk about life and death as if speaking of the weather. It’s hard for you and I, Merlin. We who outlived them. Who loved them, and lost them, and had no choice but to grieve them.”

“It is,” Merlin whispered back after a few seconds of silence. He was shaking. “There are times when I look at them, and it feels like – like seeing ghosts. Like seeing the skeletons underneath the skin. The stab to the heart. The sickness in the blood. Death, everywhere. And by all means, it should be wrong. For them to be back. For us to be united. But then why does it feel so – so – “

“Right?” She sighed. “You know, Merlin, maybe we _are_ all ghosts. Maybe this is our paradise. The gods know we’ve deserved it.”

_You know, if I’d actually died, too, then maybe I would have believed that as well._

Things being as they were, Merlin simply nodded, once more relieved that Gwen could not see his face and how pale he had become, and he simply held her tighter.

He felt her hold him tighter in return, and did his best to relax in the embrace. They remained that way for seconds, minutes, maybe more.

But then –

“ _Guinevere_ , hands off my manservant, if you please.”

Merlin’s first reaction was a smile, that seemed to brush his heart, if not always his lips, whenever Arthur was in the same room as he, but then he frowned. Had Arthur just said –

_Hands off my manservant._

He frowned.

Wouldn’t it have made more sense for him to say, _Merlin, keep your hands off my wife_?

But Gwen didn’t seem troubled by his words in the slightest; on the contrary, a light, albeit a little sad, laugh left her throat and, after one last squeeze, she stepped back.

Merlin turned to Arthur, and was surprised by what he saw in his eyes: tenderness and concern. For once, the king didn’t even seem to be attempting to hide it, instead gazing at them openly, gazing at _Merlin_ openly. It even seemed like he wanted to say something but did not have the words.

Then he closed his eyes briefly, and when he reopened them, the feelings were gone, leaving only faked exasperation.

“Well, Merlin. How about you find me a room for the night?”

“Find you a – “ Merlin glanced at Arthur, then at Gwen, then back at Arthur, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “I’d just assumed that you’d both be sleeping in the same room.”

Gwen laughed, while Arthur, seemingly unfazed by the question, responded naturally.

“Well, we _could_ , but I’d much rather have my own chambers, if such a thing were possible.”

“Sure!” Merlin replied, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Yeah, yeah, of course.” He had no idea what was actually going on, but he was not going to refuse Arthur his own room. “Err, I’ve got a room ready, if you’ll come with me, Sire.” He turned to Gwen, who was smiling at him with something akin to understanding in her gaze. He frowned.

“Sweet dreams, Merlin.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

.

Merlin’s dreams were not, as it occurred, sweet in the slightest.

They were ugly, nasty, and left shivers down the base of his spine.

 _Go, go, go away!_ Merlin was now crying, imploring, begging. (In his dreams, he always begged.) _Leave me, go, go, go…_

But the shadows around him remained, dancing their dance, chanting their songs, cursing _him_. (In his dreams, the shadows never relented, no matter how hard he cried.)

 _Damn you, Emrys, son of the Earth, the Sea, the Sky_ , they said. _May your existence be cursed forever. The closest you will ever come to death will be through the deaths of your loved ones, who will keep falling as castles of cards. And you shall beg, and wail, and whimper, but she shan’t ever take you._

One of the shadows clenched its hands around Merlin’s neck, and squeezed, and squeezed, and squeeze… Merlin wanted to keep his eyes shut so he couldn’t see them anymore, but he couldn’t: to do such a thing, he would have had to be awake.

The dream itself had seemed harmless enough at first sight (they always did).

See, the dragon had come to visit, which was not a rare occurrence in Merlin’s hours of sleep. Even though Kilgharrah had passed ages ago, Merlin liked to think that his spirit still came to visit sometimes, to scatter small bits of hopes and enigmas in the warlock’s heart. _I need your help_ , he had called, as he had done so many times in the past. The dragon had nodded, urging him to speak. _Why – why have they all come back? Arthur, and Gwen, and Lancelot – why are they all back? Why now, of all times? You said, when Albion’s need is greatest – is this why they’re here? Can’t there be another reason?_ The dragon had laughed out loud. _And what reason would that be?_ The warlock had hesitantly cleared his throat. _Well… can’t it be that they’re all back for me? Wouldn’t that be a sweet thought?_ The dragon had frowned and, all of a sudden, his once tranquil expression had been replaced with glints of anger. _For you? FOR YOU?_ he had growled. _If they had come back for you, wouldn’t they have come back centuries ago, as your head rested on the executioner’s block? Wouldn’t they have come back the first time you gave yourself to the sea, begging her to take you? Wouldn’t they have returned that one time you were tied to the pyre and were reduced to pathetic begging? Wouldn’t they have come back then, eh?_ The warlock had looked up at the dragon with tears in his eyes. _Why am I here, then? What’s my role in all of this, if I’m as broken as you claim?_ The dragon had sighed. _Broken as you might be, your powers remain. The Once and Future King was brought back to achieve his holy purpose, and you, warlock – you are just a tool._

_Just a tool._

A tool, an object, an instrument.

A vessel.

Nothing more.

A vessel of magic, and grief, and rage, and his magic was the only thing they were interested in.

That’s when the dream had shifted to a vision of nightmare, because, all of a sudden, there were no longer just Merlin and Kilgharrah in the rooms of his mind. All of a sudden, there were shadows rising at each corner, shadows dancing and chanting and cursing.

All of a sudden, there were hands clenched around Merlin’s throat, and there were voices ringing in the warlock’s head.

 _Thank you, Merlin._ A knight on the doors of hell, looking back at the prince’s servant with something akin to softness in his gaze, while the warlock just _let him_.

 _I always thought you were the bravest man that I knew._ A warlock, utterly terrified at the thought of losing his king, ready to _kill a boy_ for the sole crime of being the topic of a prophecy.

 _You can trust me._ A friend, handing the king’s ward a jug of poison, and looking away as she collapsed onto the cold floor of stones.

 _You’re like a son to me._ An uncle – no, a father –, ready to face the High Priestess and lay down his life for a boy who _did not deserve it_.

 _You’re the bravest of us all, Merlin._ A broken man, holding his king’s body against his own, and begging, begging, begging the skies to give him back.

 _And he doesn’t even know it._ A king, looking at his friend with disgust and fear in his eyes as he learnt of what he truly was. _He doesn’t even know it._ A friend, thanking Merlin for the kingdom he’d helped him build. _Doesn’t even know it._ Gazing up at Merlin with no more revulsion in his eyes, simply affection, bare affection – a lover, perhaps?

The shadow’s grip on his throat made the voices turn into a cloud of hazy whispers, and, as quickly as he’d appeared in his mind, Arthur… disappeared.

Suddenly, there were claws diggings inside his shoulders’ skin as well, holding, shaking, and Merlin thought he could grasp small bits of sentences.

_‘S just a dream… ‘S alright, Merlin… Wake up... ‘M here…_

The claws gripping his shoulders were dangerously close to his throat, and it was out of natural instinct that Merlin jerked up, eyes still firmly shut, and went to face the shadow that seemed so eager to take his breath away from him.

“Let _go_!” he hissed furiously. “Let me go, let me go, let me go – “

The shadow tried to soothe him, but Merlin wouldn’t let himself be fooled so easily.

“Let go, or _speak_! Either you let go of me, or you tell me _why_!”

“Why – why what?” the shadow asked, its claws momentarily slipping off Merlin’s shoulders.

“You know what! Th – them, all of them, the laughing knight, the widowed queen, the golden king – _why_ have they all come back? Tell me, why were they brought back?”

The claws were on his shoulders once more, shaking, but Merlin ignored them, caught in his own delirium.

“There _has_ to be a reason, Merlin, there is _always_ a reason, always, always, always – always some ulterior motive hidden somewhere, always something that I’m not made aware of – always something that _matters_ when, by all rights, it shouldn’t! It should be up to _us_! Us! But no, there’s a reason, I know it, there has to be one – and it can’t be just for me, that would be just – nonsense. So why? Why, and what’s my part in all of this?”

The shadow was silent now, which was quite a nice change. Now, Merlin could finally reason in peace.

“DESTINY!” he exclaimed, and his voice broke. “Destiny, that’s what it is, isn’t it? Destiny, oh, yes, it’s always destiny – destiny, always, everywhere, wherever I look, destiny, destiny, destiny – why can’t it leave me _be_? Destiny is why they’re back, destiny wants them, destiny wants us, and destiny always gets what she wants.”

He loathed her. Could feel her everywhere around him, clenching a fist around his soul, and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing…

He could see destiny and pyres and lovers, each kissing him in a different manner, and there he was, one lost warlock in the midst of it all. _There he was._ Still standing on top of the ground under which he should have been buried ages ago.

“But why _me_? What do they – what do you want from me, what could they possibly want from me? What do they keep wanting from me? Haven’t they had _enough_? Can’t they simply let go, as _I_ had to let go of – of all the rest? Why won’t they simply let go, Kilgharrah? I’m not – I’m not doing it again. You won’t persuade me. Not this time. I am _not_ doing it again. I won’t. I _won’t_. I refuse.”

He shook his head stubbornly, promising to himself that this time, _he would not_.

But then the shadow started talking again, and Merlin –

Just –

Snapped.

“NO!” he screamed, wailed, _broke_. “Leave me _be_! Haven’t you had enough? Let me go, let me go, let me go – please, let me go! I can’t live like this anymore! Let go, let go, let go – “

“Merlin – Merlin, _wake up_.”

The sentence, that sounded like a command, caused Merlin to freeze instantly.

There was somebody with him.

Somebody in the room.

He clenched his fists, gold beginning to gather underneath his eyelids… but then, he hesitated. Something in the way the voice had spoken had sounded oddly familiar to him. _Wake up, Merlin._

Before he could even decide to do anything, there was something cold, awfully cold, flowing over his head and body, and next he knew, violent shivers had taken hold of each limb of his, rendering him vulnerable and helpless as he could manage nothing else than a sudden gasp of surprise.

He could feel _hands_ , running over the skin of his neck before reaching his cheeks and settling there, urging his face upwards, urging him to focus on the creature in front of him. No, not a creature. A person. His grip was firm, the scent of his hair was somewhat familiar, his eyes were blue, and, oh, stars –

“ _Ar-Arthur?_ ”

He thought he heard a sigh of relief from the other man, and he wanted to sigh himself as well, to _breathe_ like him, because he could hardly see himself do anything else at this instant, but the tentative sigh was quick to become a broken sob.

 _The shadows_ , Merlin thought, struck by the memory of these arms reaching for him, reaching for his soul – or maybe he said it aloud? He couldn’t say.

Either way, there were quickly arms around him, a chest against his, lips brushing his ear, his hair, and until his breath calmed down, that was it. Arthur holding him tightly, and Merlin letting him.

Progressively, the dream began to fade away.

One shadow turned into Merlin’s guilt. Another, into his loved ones. One of them was even destiny itself. Gradually, he became able to place faces upon the demons that had been haunting his night, and he could feel himself growing more and more dispassionate as he realised that these were no shadows at all. Merely memories from a man who had clearly been living too long a life. He couldn’t even find it within himself to feel relieved to have awoken, because… there wasn’t much to be relieved for, was there? Even at daylight, the demons remained. Them wearing a human face did not do much to make their presence – or rather, absence – feel more bearable. They just… were.

While Merlin, unfortunately, was, too.

His dreams hardly ever surprised him, these days. He wouldn’t deny that it felt better when he couldn’t feel those horrendous shadows reaching for his ugly soul, but he wouldn’t try to pretend that his aches disappeared all as one come daylight either. Those were proper endings for proper fairy tales, and Merlin’s tale, in spite of never ending, was not that of a fairy. In his tale, there were demons, and monsters, and beasts, but, most of all, there were just men.

There were no _he lived happily ever after_ endings in his tale.

Simply: he _lived_. And lived, and lived, and lived. Alone.

Even life lost some of its initial taste after a while.

Merlin was quick to guess that this was to be yet another night during which he would feel nothing. Yet another empty night ahead. He wanted to laugh, but, abruptly reminded of Arthur’s presence by the way the king’s grip slightly loosened, he had to stop himself.

“Erm – “ What could he say to make Arthur go away? And why was Arthur still holding him, one hand buried in his hair?

“I heard you,” Arthur said, and Merlin was surprised by how his voice sounded. Hoarse and broken. One might have thought that Arthur had been the one having the nightmare here, and not Merlin. “I was walking in the corridor, and I heard you – you, you sounded – “

Merlin cursed himself internally, barely paying attention to the rest of Arthur’s sentence. Damn him! He should have renewed the muting spell on his room, why hadn’t he thought of that? Obviously, the excessive use of his magic, in addition to making him more prone to visions of horror, must have put an end to the spell he had cast months ago on the walls of his room.

He was suddenly very annoyed with himself.

One good thing that had come of his magic being _wounded_ , he guessed, was that he hadn’t been able to hurt Arthur as he’d probably mistaken him for a shadow or something. That was – that was good. He’d just have to find a way to convince Arthur that this had been a random dream, and then be more careful in the future. It wasn’t like he was planning to stay here forever, anyway.

Persuading Arthur of the harmlessness of his dream shouldn’t be too hard, he assumed. Just a few words ought to be enough to trick Arthur into thinking it was nothing important. Besides, the king must be exhausted. He’d be glad for a reason to quickly go back to sleep.

“Yeah,” Merlin chuckled nervously when Arthur finally stopped talking, pretending he had been listening to him when, in truth, he had absolutely no idea what the king had been rambling about. Complaining, probably, and worrying, just a little bit. “I dream of your ugly face. Which makes sense, since you’ve just come back. Had to acclimate to the fact that I was doomed to see this face again on the upcoming morrows.”

“Merlin…”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe you’d look better like an old man. Or an old woman. We should try that someday. Now, I’ve no doubt that you must be tired, so – “

“Merlin, I _heard_ you. You were mistaking me for – “

“Nobody!”

“Merlin, you were clearly hallucinating – “

“Yeah, it happens! Sometimes. Whenever my magic’s fragile, as it was tonight. I lose sight of reality for a little while, but I always land back on my two feet. So really, there’s nothing for you to worry about, _Ar_ thur.”

“Merlin…”

And suddenly, Merlin paused. He paused, because there was something awfully familiar about the way that Arthur looked at him and acted around him, whether it be how he wouldn’t take his eyes off him or how his hand kept tracing light, regular patterns against the skin of his neck.

Merlin had seen that behaviour before, whenever Arthur found himself among people – mostly knights, but not always – suffering from various traumas. How many times had he seen the king kneel at a young knight’s feet in the aftermath of a battle, gently reaching for his hand to take the blood-drenched blade away, and whispered soft words of comfort?

How many times had he seen Arthur give some of his strength to those who had little of it left?

 _This is what he sees in me_ , Merlin realised. _A young, wounded knight about to faint after his first battle. After all these years, he still sees me as a child. After all these years, he still thinks that I have seen less of war and cruelty than he has._

 _All these years_ … only, to Arthur, it hadn’t been so many years, had it? To Arthur, Merlin was still the weeping warlock he had left behind, the very same weeping warlock who had welcomed him back into this world and needed the strength of Arthur’s arms to stand when it ought to have been the other way around.

He still thought of Merlin as the clumsy, meek servant whose arms he had died in, while Merlin had lost sight of how it felt to be that boy. Arthur had died and blinked and been reborn, while Merlin’s eyes had never once been shut. _He still shelters the memory of a person that I no longer am – a person that I, if I’m to be honest, doubt I ever completely was. How twisted is that?_

“I’ve seen such things before, Merlin.”

“Sure, you have.” Merlin smiled bitterly.

“I _have_. This was – “

“A _dream_ ,” Merlin firmly insisted. “That’s what people do, Arthur. They dream, and sometimes, they make bad dreams – and on very rare occasions, the dreams are so bad that they wake up screaming. It _happens_. And now, it’s over. Alright? I think you should go back to sleep, now.” He sounded dismissive and harsh, he knew it, and yet there were not many other things for him to do.

Maybe… smile? A smile might be a good idea. Humans tended to like it when other humans smiled at them, taking it as a sigh of good omen. A promise for better days. A smile seemed to mean, in some sort of universal language owned by men, that things were alright, or that, at the very least, they _would_ _be_. So Merlin smiled. Perhaps, he mused, he ought to shed a few tears, as well. It might make the feeling seem more authentic – he knew from good source that there was no feeling half as authentic as the one in which happiness and sadness were closely entangled.

But, with Arthur, maybe a simple smile would suffice. He’d never paid Merlin much attention, anyway. Never deemed him a very good liar. Yes. He’d settle for a smile.

“To sleep,” Arthur repeated flatly. ”Knowing that you – “

“– will be asleep as well, hopefully not dreaming of Gwaine’s stinky socks.”

“I thought you said that you’d been dreaming of me.”

Merlin shrugged innocently, and looked Arthur in the eye, unblinking. “Gwaine was there, too.”

“Oh, was he?”

He nodded. “Good night, Arthur.”

“I don’t want to – “ Arthur began, then abruptly stopped.

 _– leave you_ , Merlin finished inside his head.

The words hung heavily upon his chest.

_He still thinks he can save me. Still thinks I’m wounded, not broken. Still genuinely believes that there’s a chance for me to heal._

And Merlin, whether it be out of weariness or remnants of human empathy, found that he could not take that away from Arthur, no matter how uncomfortable it made him feel to be the subject of the king’s attention.

So he shook his head, trying to soothe Arthur’s spirits by resting a hand on one of his shoulders.

“Arthur... I’ll be alright. I assure you. I will. Now please, go to sleep. Or else I’ll blame myself, and I won’t sleep a wink.”

Though at the instant, Merlin wasn’t feeling much, he knew that, were he in his normal state, this statement would certainly have been accurate. And Arthur seemed to know that, too, since he nodded unusually docilely. After a few seconds spent gazing at Merlin intently, as if trying to decipher a possible lie in his words, he finally stood up and went for the door. He stopped there, and, spinning on his heels, said:

“Don’t let it break you, Merlin. That’s all I’m asking you. Do not let it break you.”

 _Already have_ , Merlin thought.

But he said nothing.

Falling back onto the mattress and staring up at the ceiling, the _vessel of magic_ thought back on the dragon’s words.

_A tool, then._

He laughed cynically.

 _Rather a broken one._ The gods would be disappointed if they were expecting him to be a main actor in any sort of prophecy. He could barely be an actor in his own _life_ as it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter :) it's... quite dark. And a bit dramatic, I know :') but Merlin did go through a lot, so I'll take that as an excuse for Merlin's tirades and all, which I absolutely LOVE writing. Oh and the dream was so much fun to write! I hope it was alright to read ahaha, I can't really stop once I get started so it ends up being pretty heavy angst ^^ I hope it was interesting to read anyway!  
> Writing about the knights and Gwen also brought me so much joy!!  
> I won't be able to write much more in the days to come since I've got my exams next week, but I'll try to write more regularly after that ^^ right now I've got plenty of ideas going in plenty of different directions, so I must admit that I'm not sure exactly where this is going :) oh, well, we'll see.  
> I'd be happy to know what you think of it! Have a nice night/day. :)


	3. Dividing truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths are revealed and friends gather. :)

Time was a trickery thing.

“How many years?”

It made men want to bury their faces inside their hands, smash their palms against their ears, and _just ignore it_.

“Arthur…”

To just… join the dance, with no idea when it would come to an end. To dance until one’s limbs were so exhausted that they could barely stand, and yet prefer this fate over the fate of truth.

“How. Many. Years?”

There were times, however, when simply _ignoring_ it was no longer an option. Times when it had to be acknowledged, lest one start to become mad.

“A thousand and five hundred years ago, you died,” Merlin said calmly from where he was sitting by the window. He looked Arthur in the eye as he said it, and didn’t look away to show the king that he was deadly serious.

Denial could serve a man for a while, but Merlin knew for a fact that it merely made the downfall worse in the end. Denial had got him nowhere, and Arthur himself had no need for it. Besides, he knew his king; knew that he’d much rather inherit a difficult truth than be gifted a bouquet of lies. In this way, Arthur was much stronger than Merlin could ever hope to be: he did not resort to denial when the truth became too hard to bear. He simply… accepted it, as part of his duty as a king. Accepted it, as he had accepted to bear his crown, heavy as it got, and to keep it until the very end. Arthur did what Merlin could not: accept his duty, accept his role, and play it as long as he could.

 _Thank the stars he did not see me, wrapped in my denial, half-mad with the taste of it_ , Merlin mused as he cautiously watched the emotions unravel on his king’s face. Thank the stars he still saw a servant and perhaps a friend when he looked upon Merlin, and not a senile old man capable of yelling, weeping and laughing, all in the same minute. Best to let him harbour memories of a man who was long gone, than to force upon him the shadow that he had become. If he let Arthur see a little of him, then his sense of duty would urge him to crave for more, and guilt would toy relentlessly with his king’s heart.

Arthur did not deserve that. Did not _need_ that.

What he needed at this instant was simple: peace, understanding, and support.

Gwen’s hand on his shoulder.

Leon’s arm wrapped around his back.

Percival’s eyes, full of attention and compassion they were, focused on him solely.

Peace. Understanding. Support.

Neither of which Merlin could provide him at the moment.

_We will never understand each other again._

How could they, when they’d been parted by centuries and lies?

There was simply no more hope for them. None. But for Arthur and Gwen and for the knights, there most certainly was, and Merlin could see it simply by the gazes they shared. The love that bound them, and made this room warmer than it had been in years – warmer than it had been with the strength of Merlin’s presence only.

Not for the first time, Merlin was a witness of this… this _belonging_. They fit, they truly did, as the pieces of some puzzle. They knew how to give each other exactly what they needed, because they each needed the same thing in the end: somebody whose eyes to look into and see their reflection there. They were _alike_ , alike in a way that Merlin would never be, not with anyone. Not when he had lived for centuries, and them for less than one – even less than half a century, for four of them. _Four!_ The thought of it made Merlin feel sick, and he vaguely mused that his heart had in the end not remained empty for long. It probably had something to do with Arthur being here; after all, Arthur’s presence had always had the power to shift things inside his head and heart alike in the most irrational manner that there was. The fact remained, there was between them and Merlin a gap that not even their love could fill. Merlin challenged the laws of time enough already by having endured for all these years; he would not challenge them further by attempting to recreate friendships as though no year had passed. He would not insult time in such a way, nor insult his own heart, that had suffered so much already.

As he looked back upon his loved ones, eyes lingering on the soothing circles that Gwen’s hand was now tracing on Arthur’s skin, he was made aware that there were some things that he could never give Arthur, no matter how hard he tried. Consistency was one of those things. As he had very well showed the night before, there were times when he lost himself, whatever _himself_ meant. Times when he fell, and fell, and fell down the slope, and was left staggering in the pit when there was no one there to catch him. He could not swear to Arthur that he would always be there, always be _his_ , not by lack of desire to be so, but for the simple reason that some parts of himself were not even his to give any longer. Some parts of himself had been built from the ruin Arthur’s death had precipitated him into, built from those shreds of self-doubt and hatred and resentment stirred by this terrible immortality, and they were _untameable_. They just ran from one corner of Merlin’s mind to the next, irking him, _haunting_ him, as they would haunt some ruin that had once been one of the world’s greatest theatres, but now had no master, no role, and no aim. Merlin had learnt to live with those parts of himself, but he wouldn’t wish them upon anyone but himself. Wouldn’t wish for Arthur to encounter them and shiver at their sight, shiver at the sight of what he had become.

Merlin was not consistent. That was a fact. He was… volatile. Volatile, and unsteady. Made of parts that he did not even control. Subject to forces that he could not tame. And there was of course the matter of his immortality. Yet another part of himself that had been bestowed upon him, and on which Merlin held no power at all.

He was no longer _just_ Merlin. He was a million things at once, and rarely the same thing on two days in a row. The only reliable part he could cling on to was his magic, that had not once failed him, but he doubted that Arthur would want to get too close to that one part. Save for the magic, he was everything and nothing at once.

Time, immortality, grief, and many other things, had twisted Merlin’s soul to the extent that, were it not for the servant’s face that he wore, he doubted anyone would be able to tell that it was his own.

 _How does it feel to not even be your own person anymore?_ some sarcastic voice taunted him from the depths of his mind.

Already more than a thousand years ago, he had caught glimpses of this feeling of powerlessness and dispossession, as he had seen Camelot’s fate unravel all around him, and each of his actions simply serve to make the prophecy ring truer as the years went. More than a thousand years ago, he had thought himself a soldier, _her_ soldier, a soldier of destiny, meant to carry on his heart the blunt seal of tragedy, but now – now, he doubted. As easy as it would be to call destiny his foe and be done with it, to claim that she had made him so, rather than his own greed and passion, he felt that it was… wrong. For how could he? How could he reject the blame on some presumed superior entity, when, deep inside his heart, he felt like the guiltiest man on Earth? He was old now, older than any man alive, and certainly too old to shutter his mind with pitiful walls of ignorance.

There had been many complicated things in his life, his magic and his immortality being the first of those.

But the matter of his sins, on the other hand, was frighteningly simple, clear as day: he had done evil things, terrible things, and now, he must atone for them – or, if not atone, then at least accept them, bear them as his own wrongdoings, and not as that of some distant entity going by the name of _destiny_.

The fact remained, Merlin would never fit by their side again, because he did not fit in this world in the first place. Did not even fit as _Emrys_! He had been some playground for superior entities such as time, or immortality, to trample upon, leaving him maimed and uglily _asymmetrical_. It wasn’t just that he did not fit into this world; there was something, deep inside his core, that did not fit. Something about what he was that he had not yet fathomed out, and doubted he ever would. Something utterly _wrong_. He _was not his own person to dispose of anymore._ It may not have been so once, but it most definitely was at this instant; there were far too many forces involved, forces that were beyond Merlin’s power. And he was not his own person to dispose of anymore. Whether it be by the pawn of destiny, gods or his own mind, he did not belong to himself any longer, and doubted he ever would again.

Doubted things would ever make sense again.

At this instant, he could only try to imagine what had to be going inside Arthur’s mind; the heavy dismay, the bitter denial, the hostile loneliness. The realisation that all the institutions that he had once loved and cherished, all that he had established as a king and thought he could rely on, was simply – gone. Quickly as the snap of two fingers, it had vanished, and with it, his throne, his crown, and all these duties that he had accepted as his own, and fulfilled till his dying breath.

And Merlin wanted, oh, he wanted to hold Arthur and whisper, _I’ll take you back to Camelot, I swear it. Take you back to Camelot and its great halls of stone and long corridors with huge, beaming windows. Back to this world we once were a part of, back to these days when all it would take is two saddled horses and one trusted companion to fancy oneself another man, with another fate, even if it was barely for the span of a few hours._ He wanted to rest Arthur’s forehead against his own, allow their breaths to mingle together, and murmur, as a secret: _I’ll take you back. I was lying, Arthur; Camelot_ is _still standing. You never died. The Sidhe healed you. Things are still the same. Gwen is still queen, Leon and Percival are still knights, and you are still the king, and I, your faithful warlock._ He wanted to build an illusion, to build the illusion of a standing Camelot, simply for the sake of Arthur’s happiness. Wanted to scream: _it’s alright! They’re all lying, but I’m not, I swear, we’ll be alright._ He wanted to give Arthur the illusion he himself had had no right to, being the only man in the world that he could share it with. Wanted to let him live a little while longer, warm with the certitude that _Camelot stood_ , that everything he had one stood for was still standing today. He wanted… wanted… oh, he wanted to find a way to make things fit, to turn things harmonious once again, the way they were meant to be…

But this way, alas, could only exist throughout lies… and that was the one thing Merlin could not – _would_ not – do any longer: to lie to Arthur’s face. About his own well-being, he could, he _had_ to, but about this world that Arthur was to live in? It would be the greatest sin of them all, and so he would not do it, as much as he wished to see young carelessness dance on Arthur’s face features once again. This was not just about Merlin and Arthur anymore, not just about the magic.

 _This_ was the reality; a reality that hardly made sense, but a reality all the same, and _theirs_.

And Merlin – Merlin just wanted, needed, things to make _sense_. His own death would make sense. Anything but this wretched situation would make sense, if he were to be honest. And so how could he ever hope to soothe the questions he could see gathering inside his king’s tired eyes, when he, himself, understood so little?

There was simply no future for them.

There could have been one, if Merlin had been ready to be Emrys, _the_ Emrys, the indifferent old man that he felt himself becoming at times. There could have been one, if he had been willing to give up on his emotions and entirely take on the role of the guardian, the carer, the protector. Then he could have been strong, strong enough for the both of them.

But he wasn’t that warlock.

Instead, he had been the weeping child who had thrown himself into Arthur’s arms, held him close as a babe would clutch a toy in the dark, and begged him, aloud or in his mind, never to let go of him again. Rather than the warlock offering his king a helping hand, _Arthur_ had been the one to whisper soft words of solace at Merlin’s ear, and to soothe him the night before, and to offer his comfort any time he deemed fit.

Merlin may have been gifted with the powers of Emrys, but when it came to his heart, there were times when it seemed as frail as that of a naïve child. Times when he felt that, for all the years he had spent on this Earth, he was still longing for a loving touch, still craving to be held, and held, and held, and, _please-please-please_ , never let go of. He was the worst human of them all.

And, oh, dear gods, how _pathetic._

He started violently when, all of a sudden, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The grip was a slight one, but it made him jump all the same: he started abruptly and only relaxed when he met a familiar gaze. Against all odds, it was _Lancelot_ who had come to him… and Merlin wished that he hadn’t.

He didn’t feel like speaking to anyone at this instant. Nevertheless, he managed a small, “Oh, it’s you.”

Had he been paying closer attention, there was no doubt that he would have noticed the shadows in Lancelot’s gaze, akin to thick, grey clouds about to reveal something more likely to be rain than a gleaming sun – something that rarely occurred on the knight’s usual calm stare.

But Merlin noticed none of it, still half-buried in his thoughts, musing about all the things that he could not give Arthur.

Had his heart still been whole, these thoughts would have broken it. Things being as they were, all they did was press its shattered pieces further against his chest, which was… not a very nice feeling, either, come to think of it.

It was a rare thing for him, he noticed, to be away from Arthur in his hours of need. He knew he was merely sat at the other side of the room, and yet it felt far, very far, _too_ far. Usually, when Arthur’s soul would weep, Merlin would be close, either showing him his love with words and gestures, or simply _being_ there, letting Arthur know that _he_ was there, and that he, at least, was not going anywhere. It must have felt nice, he now mused. To have this unwavering certainty that one person, at least, would never fall. Somebody who loved him, and always would. Merlin had never had that. He’d had people whom he’d loved, and people who’d loved him, and, on some few occasions, people whom he’d loved and who had loved him in return, but no one had ever stayed. They’d all fallen, in the end. One after the other. And Merlin was the only one left standing.

But standing forever, for Arthur, wouldn’t do him much good if he could not provide him the comfort that he needed. His being immortal didn’t make him stable, didn’t make him consistent. All it did was make him more broken, and less predictable, and therefore, less suited to Arthur’s character. His immortality weighed him down.

One selfish part of him thought that at least one good thing that had come out from Arthur learning the truth was that it would probably be enough to get the previous night out of his head. The last thing he wanted, last thing he needed, was Arthur requesting answers from him. At least now, his king’s spirits were busy elsewhere.

“ _Merlin!_ ” He looked up to meet Lancelot’s gaze once more, Lancelot, whose presence he had totally forgotten, and winced when the knight pulled him up with a fierce hand. “This can go on no longer,” the knight said, more for himself than for Merlin, he suspected. He then tilted his head towards the window, saying, “Come with me.”

“Can’t this _wait_?” Merlin complained, a thing he seldom did in presence of his friends, fearing they might see this as a sign of his heart’s utter pathetic state. But at this instant, he was just so _fed up_. Fed up with the lies, fed up with the false pretence, fed up with it _all_. “ _Lan_ celot!” The knight, not harshly but quite firmly still, began to drag him across the living room, and as Merlin trailed over the couple of sofas where Arthur and his other friends were gathered, huddling close, and tried not to let his eyes linger for too long on the many hands that held him and eyes that rested on him and to chase that sinking feeling from the pit of his stomach, an idea crossed his mind. “Don’t you want to – go and join them?” he asked Lancelot. “Gwen seems upset.”

Lancelot’s features twisted in ugly irritation, and Merlin, wondering how he could not have noticed that earlier, found himself regretting his words as soon as he spoke them. But he could not take them back, and so he kept quiet.

“Oh, no, Merlin,” the knight sharply retorted, and underneath all the poorly contained anger, Merlin thought that he could see – pain? “Don’t even try that with me, d’you hear me? Don’t you dare insult me in such a way.”

Some part of Merlin could not help feeling relieved, though he did not know precisely _why_ , but his irritation was quick to swallow all the rest.

Tugging on Merlin’s sleeve, Lancelot urged him to leave the room, and they both headed to the front door, which Lancelot opened with calm, composed gestures, a harsh contrast to the ivory of his knuckles and the iron of his tone.

Neither Lancelot, nor Merlin, were as calm as they usually were… and Merlin found himself dreading what turn their conversation would take.

“You’re not yourself.”

Merlin looked up at Lancelot, caught off guard for a few instants. That, he had not been expecting.

“ _Excuse_ me?” he finally retorted, casting a glance at the wide windows of the house that let him catch a glimpse of Arthur, or rather Arthur’s back, as he had apparently just stood up to leave. He bit his lip, uneasy at the thought of not being with him. He knew he did not _belong_ there, and yet he could not help wishing that he were there, giving Arthur all the love that he had and hoping it would be enough. _I would give him all that I have, all the_ good _things that remain in my soul, and rid myself of them if I had to._ He guessed that _some_ things did never change.

“ _You_ ,” and Lancelot took a step closer, “ _are not_ ,” another step, a finger pointing at his chest, accusing, always accusing, “ _yourself._ ”

“Define _yourself_ ,” Merlin said, trying to keep the heat out of his tone.

He was just so fed up and he wanted to be with Arthur and why did things have to be so –

“Are we really doing this, Merlin?” Lancelot said angrily, and Merlin challenged him with a stare, thinking, _you’re the one who started this_. “Alright. Alright. _Yourself_ is caring about your friends. _Yourself_ is showing them that you care. _Yourself_ is anything, anything, anything but that thing you just did in the living room.”

“What – what _thing_?” Merlin could feel the anger rising within his heart, asking to go out, out, _out_ –

“With _Arthur_!” the knight exclaimed. “That – that chilliness in your tone, Merlin. That coolness in your eyes as you told him something that you knew would destroy him.”

Hearing Arthur’s name, for some reason, hearing it mixed with that tone of accusation, made Merlin’s heart beat faster within his chest, his head beginning to ache with the swelling of his rage.

“ _All I did was tell him the truth!_ ” the warlock snarled, raising his chin up, looking at Lancelot in the eye.

The knight was left unfazed. “The truth?” Merlin could already tell that he wouldn’t like what would come next, and he was ready to say something, ready to shout, ready to protest, but then – “Is this how you told him of your magic, then? Looking him in the eye as he was on the brink of death, and stating calmly, coldly, _indifferently_ , that you were a warlock?”

And all the anger, the rage, the near hysteria, the pain, that had been about to surge out, just recoiled and went back _in_ , and the accusation in Lancelot’s voice, the gestures of anger, the look of reproach, it was all too much, and so Merlin, for instants or seconds or minutes, he could not tell, heard _nothing_.

And _everything_.

He no longer heard Lancelot, although he could see him gesticulating, eyes blazing angrily, and easily guess the words that had to be escaping from his lips.

No longer heard the wind that had risen and was now rustling against the leaves, a bit threatening.

Did not even hear his own heartbeat.

The feelings were back _in_ , back to hiding, which was what they did best, and the memories were _out_.

All of a sudden, he no longer was standing at the outside of his house, in the twenty-first century, surrounded with friends.

Instead, he was in a clearing, and the other part of his soul was laying on the floor in front of him, aching, being drained, and there was the night falling all around them and the fire crackling gently, the elements of nature wrapping them both in a false halo of transparent harmony. His king was shivering on the ground, cold sweat shining on his forehead, back from a battle where his servant had been _missing_ , and even still, trying to smile and laugh at the latter so as to soothe his anxieties. And then the king has his hand resting on his servant’s shoulder, and the king was Arthur, and the servant was Merlin, and Merlin was clinging onto Arthur’s hand, desperately, begging him to touch him, to hold him close, and leaning near him as he said something that had quivered on the edge of his lips so many times in the past already.

_I’m a sorcerer, Arthur –_

And then they no longer were Merlin and Arthur, no longer were servant and king. Then, they were warlock and ruler, the ruler being Uther’s son, and the ruler’s face was filled with dismay and yet some sort of resolution, as he said – _leave me_.

As he told the warlock to _leave him_.

Asking the one man, the friend who had never left him, never, _ever_ , to do just that.

A less indifferent Merlin would have thought that Lancelot was wrong, that when Merlin had told Arthur of his magic, it had not been with ice in his eyes and blankness between their bodies. A less indifferent Merlin might have recollected how, very coldly, Arthur had told him to leave him, and how, as soon as they’d stopped touching, the warlock boy had felt very cold and lonely indeed. Shivering violently, with brutal sobs shaking his entire body, torn between the urge to look at Arthur, to look him in the eye, and the fear of what he would find in there.

Instead of doing just that, Merlin simply glanced down at his feet and contemplated the ground there. A white carpet of snow that had unravelled all around them, conveying a fake impression of purity. Purity of his soul, with all of his sins forgotten. Forgetfulness truly was a gift. A gift he would never get to afford.

He mused on how sorrowful it was, to look down at the footprints of men in the snow, to witness how easily they had ruined nature’s landscapes. _Just a few steps, and it’s soiled. Sometimes, a few steps are all it takes, really._

“I thought not,” a voice said, Lancelot’s voice said, and, oh, he could hear him again.

He was snapped out of his thoughts and memories, and so he looked at the knight wordlessly, frowning at how his words echoed in the sudden emptiness of his soul. _Empty. Full. Empty._

Well. That was a bit uncomfortable.

“Merlin! Thank heavens you’re here!”

They both turned to face Gwen, who was waving at them from the front door.

“Merlin,” she said, “we need you inside, please, Arthur is – he’s locked himself in one of the rooms, and he won’t let us in, and I don’t know how to – don’t know _what_ to – you’d better come and see, Merlin. If anyone can do something, then it’s you.”

Merlin didn’t ponder for too long on the phrasing of her sentence, figuring that the distress clearly displayed on Gwen’s face was sufficient reason for the obvious exaggeration in her words – _if anyone can do something, then it’s you, honestly_ –, and he followed her inside, vaguely wondering what on Earth was going on, and glad for the opportunity to escape from this uncomfortable situation with Lancelot.

“He locked himself in one of the bathrooms,” Gwen explained as they hurried into the corridors, “and I wouldn’t worry so much if he had not just been returned to us, but, see, that’s the thing, he returned only last night, and when _we_ returned, we were in quite a state of shock, weren’t we? Gwaine even thought it to be witchcraft – oh, sorry – and he tried to cut himself with a knife to make sure this was real, and so, after all he’s been through, who knows how Arthur might react – “

“If you could just try to talk to him,” Leon nodded, appearing on his left, a heavy frown wrinkling his forehead, “tell him that we care, perhaps explain – “

Merlin did not know if there was much to explain, but he nodded all the same, obediently following Gwen and Leon as they walked him to the bathroom.

“That’s where she is,” Gwen said softly. She looked at him for a few instants, and then raised a hand to his shoulder so as to rub it gently. An odd desire to lean into the touch overwhelmed Merlin, and he felt something akin to trust rise in the indifference of his mind. “We’ll leave you to it, then.”

She grabbed Leon’s sleeve, and they both walked away, leaving only the corridor, the bathroom door, the silence, Arthur, and Merlin.

Merlin bit his lip. Wrapped his arms around himself. Cleared his throat.

“Arthur?” he called, voice hesitant.

He heard something similar to a sigh, then a chuckle, and finally, a muttered, “Merlin.”

No more word came from the other side of the door.

And Merlin – he probably should have just left it at that. Probably should have gone back to Gwen and to the knights, carefully avoiding Lancelot’s no doubt inquisitive gaze, and sat down on one of the sofas, shrugging apologetically, saying that Arthur probably needed some time on his own.

Except that… Merlin knew what shock looked like, and he also knew what it felt like. The shock that Arthur was experiencing right now, the loss of bearings, the feeling that the very earth he was standing on could collapse at all time, well, it had to hurt.

And, yes, in many cases, time constituted a remedy of some sort. A way to mend things. To make peace with them.

Only, Merlin _had_ had time on his own. A tremendous amount of time. He’d had days, years, centuries to spend on his own, thinking back upon the things he could have done better. Days to admonish himself for his silly actions, years to yell at himself for the mistakes that he’d made, centuries to hate himself for the man that he was becoming. Merlin had had time, as much time as a man might ask for, _and more_ ; and if there was one thing that he had learnt, it was that there were some topics that one could spend centuries pondering upon, reminiscing, again and again and again, at the price of one’s sleep and one’s sanity. There were _topics_ that came back. Troublesome topics. Memories of dragging the body of one’s other half on the ground – a body that was lifeless. Thoughts of one’s many sins, sins without which things may have gone differently, may have gone _better_.

A thought was a hard thing to control, and as for a thought in the mind of an immortal mind? Oh, that kind of thoughts _thrived_.

Time was an enemy that Merlin had learnt to beware of, and while he himself might have fallen into its trap, he would not let Arthur do the same mistake as he. Would not let Arthur spend the remaining years of the life that had been given him reminiscing a kingdom fifteen hundred years from here.

Arthur was a warrior. He had learnt the hard way of what a fickle thing time was, had learnt of the importance of the one minute.

He guessed he would just have to remind his king of that.

“Arthur.” His tone had changed, now. It was more determined. Less hesitant. “Arthur. Let me in. Please.”

 _Funny,_ he thought with a small, sad smile _, how hardly habits die. Fifteen hundred years have passed, and yet I still find myself running to my king when I feel him vulnerable._

The lock clicked, and the door was pushed, offering Merlin a way in. Merlin took a deep breath, and he walked inside the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

Arthur was there. Facing him, back against the wall, eyes _red_ and shiny with unshed tears, reminding him of an Arthur, more than a thousand years from now, who had stood up to his father with rage in his veins after finding out the truth, or at least _a_ truth, about his mother’s death, and felt everything he had once believed in crumble around him with the trust he had once placed in his father. Merlin had hoped never to see this Arthur again, so – so dismayed, so unsteady. This had been an impossible wish, he knew it, but it had not stopped him from hoping.

And so Arthur’s eyes stared back at him, unblinking, undemanding, and yet somehow managing to seem _pleading_.

 _Tell me what you need_ , Merlin was thinking. _Tell me. Let me give you_ something _._

Against all odds, Arthur was the first one to speak. “Fifteen hundred years, Merlin,” he was whispering, running a hand over his face, with, once again, contrasting with the weariness of his voice, a sort of fierceness to the way that his shoulders were squared. “Fifteen hundred years.”

And what could Merlin reply to that? What could he say, to make the ache sweeter?

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. “So very sorry.”

Merlin dreaded Arthur asking him what it was that he was sorry for, because there were too many things, and if he started to think about one of these, then it would never end.

Thankfully, Arthur said none of it, instead shaking his head with a soft smile on his lips. “I know.” Merlin saw his right hand jerk slightly, as though starting a gesture, but then close into a fist and stay there, brushing the fabric of the trousers he was wearing.

“So, you…” Arthur cleared his throat, his voice rough with tears, and it broke Merlin’s heart. The king was running another hand over his face, visibly trying to stay strong, trying to stand on his own, and Merlin hated it. He wanted to say, _it’s alright, it’s just me. You can break. I won’t tell. Won’t even say a thing if you don’t want me to. I’ll just hold you, and that’ll have to be enough. I’ll hold you._

But he knew that he would not stay here forever, with Gwen and the knights and Arthur, and that the latter would need to stand on his own.

Besides, what right did he have to whisper into Arthur’s ear soft words of comfort, impersonating the servant he had once been, a servant whose faithfulness had never once wavered? What right did he have to offer Arthur his hand when the same hand had done things, terrible things, in sight of which Arthur would no doubt recoil if only he knew?

It felt like a betrayal of some kind.

And here he was, lying. Lying to Arthur, again and again. Did the lies never stop? At what stage had it become so that one lie brought another, trapping Merlin into a vicious circle of pretence? Lancelot spoke of the reveal of his magic as something relieving, something that would allow him to breathe at last, but, in truth, it hadn’t changed that many things.

Merlin’s magic was now just one part of the gigantic chaos that seemed to gravitate all around him, and Merlin had only one fear: to drag his friends into it.

_Does chaos never end? Do lies never fade?_

Fifteen hundred years later, he felt forced to carry both the lies he had created for his friends when they had returned, _and_ the lies from before. The luggage kept getting heavier, and sooner or later, the truth would leak.

Nothing was settled.

“You, erm… you came back before us, yeah? In… August?”

“Yeah,” Merlin nodded, a bit nervously. He looked down at his feet as he spoke. He couldn’t bear to look at Arthur as the lies rolled over his tongue. “Four months from now. Yeah.”

“Did you?”

Merlin swallowed.

“Arthur… Arthur, you’ll be alright.” He looked up at Arthur. “You’ve faced worse than that. You’ll be alright.”

“Will I, really? Will I, when they all held me earlier and I felt… nothing? When they whispered words of relief and offered strokes of comfort, and all I could think of was, _when will I manage to get away from here?_ ” He chuckled somewhat self-deprecatingly. “Well. It doesn’t matter. Best not to dwell over things of the past, right?”

Merlin didn’t understand the look that he gave him.

“I don’t – “

He shook his head. “Never mind. We should go back.” Arthur walked to the door, then he stopped there and cast Merlin one last look. “Four months ago, was it?”

It took Merlin a few seconds to understand what Arthur was referring to. When he did, he forced himself to meet his king’s gaze, and tried to think of something else as he replied, “Yeah. Yeah.”

The look Arthur cast him seemed sad, for some reason. Sadder, perhaps, than Merlin had ever seen him be. He opened his mouth to say something, but Arthur had already left the room, leaving Merlin alone in the bathroom, listening to the light buzzing sound of the radiator.

He bit his lip, unable to shake off the feeling that he had just gone through a trial and failed horridly.

.

“Why is there no more sound coming from the telly? What’s going on? What is – how can this be?”

While Percival kept fidgeting on the sofa, lifting a few cushions here and there, searching for the remote control, Gwaine dragged a chair next to the armchair Merlin was sitting in and he just sat there, eyes full of mischievousness as he revealed the object, which he had obviously just stolen from the other knight.

“So,” Gwaine began in a tone that Merlin knew all too well, “Merlin, buddy – “

“If you’re here to talk about what happened this morning, then there’s no need for it,” Merlin sharply cut, irritation causing his voice to sound harsher than he’d originally intended. “Lancelot already gave me the talk earlier.”

At that, Gwaine paused, staring at him for a few instants, uncharacteristically silent, and then he gave a light shrug, light playfulness replacing the previous gravity of his stare.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about there, mate,” he said, bumping his shoulder with Merlin’s playfully. “All I wanted to do was ask you a very important question about something that’s named _Instagram_.”

Merlin frowned. “Go on.”

“Well. I’m kind of lost, you see. Firstly, what _is_ it? Is it like a kingdom of some sort? Like Camelot? If so, then who’s the ruler? Is there a way for me to overthrow this ruler? These are just purely theoretical questions,” he quickly added, reading the astonishment in Merlin’s eyes. “I don’t even know if I’m interested in this _Instagram_ thing, which is why I need to find out more about it now. But to do so, I need to _enter_ the system, right? For which I have to create a…” He glanced down at the tablet in his hands, where the application was already opened, and read, “an _account_. And they say here that I need what they call a username. And this – this I don’t understand. Why would I need another name when I’ve already got my own? And I’ve tried to write _Sir Gwaine of Camelot_ , you see, but they simply won’t take it. So I tried _Gwaine_ , just plain _Gwaine_ , and they claim it’s already taken. Can you believe it? The cheek of it! To impersonate _me_! So. Could you explain this whole username business to me, please?”

Gwaine smiled at him angelically, causing Merlin to feel all the more suspicious.

“Gwaine,” he said warningly.

“Alright, alright,” the knight yielded, raising both hands in the air in a falsely innocent gesture. “You got me there. Elyan’s doing the same thing. We’re having some sort of…” He glanced down at his feet, and muttered, “some sort of competition over who will control the kingdom of Instagram the earliest, or whatever. And I kind of don’t want him to win. At all. I mean, you should see him! He’s super confident, simply because _Sir Elyan_ learned how to use a computer the quickest. Honestly! I was trying to figure out how the oven worked, which is way more important anyway!”

“You put your nightclothes in the oven, Gwaine,” Percival deadpanned from the other side of the room, now sat on the floor directly in front of the telly, trying to lip-read what the people were saying if the perplex, thoughtful expressions on his face were anything to go by.

“Yeah, because I wanted to make them warm! _Duh!_ ” added Gwaine after what appeared to be a few seconds of intense reflection.

“Is that why you put the shampoo bottle in the oven, too?” mocked Leon, who had just entered the living room, a book in his hands. “To make it warm?”

“You lot are ganging up on me!” wailed Gwaine.

“You really _should_ stop trying to put random stuff in the oven, though,” Merlin recommended, a smirk beginning to tug at his lips. Gwaine pouted, and Merlin’s smile widened at the sight of it.

The mischievousness that never seemed to leave Gwaine seemed to be one of the things that he had missed both about him, along with his laugh. There was just something about Gwaine’s laugh – something that urged a man to cheer alongside him, and that was an ability that Merlin had found in no other man than Gwaine.

He had had a few false hopes, though. Mostly during one particular century, the fifteenth, during which, for some reason, he had seemed to spot his loved ones everywhere. His nightmares had been particularly troublesome during that century, now that he recalled it. But one of the most uncomfortable things had been how he had seemed to start spotting his loved ones a bit everywhere, associating a brown, curly head with Leon, and a hand raising a tankard of ale with Gwaine. Once, he had met a man in a tavern – the man did not look like Gwaine in the slightest, mind you, but there was something about his attitude… something about his stance to life, that had dragged Merlin towards him, as in his head, memories of Gwaine had kept flashing. _No man can hold his ale better than me_ , the man had said with a cheery grin, that type of grin that Merlin was well enough acquainted with to know that it hid no small amount of self-deprecation and bitterness towards life. _I know of a man who would wholeheartedly disagree_ , Merlin had retorted, sitting on a stool next to the man. _Ah!_ The man had raised his tankard triumphantly, barely looking up at Merlin. _You must introduce me to him, one day._ For some reason, meeting this man had upset Merlin more than the sight of any of the Gwaine-replicas he had encountered during the century, and his voice had been low and absent as he had murmured, _knew. I… knew of a man._ The man had looked back at him, more closely this time, and something had appeared in his gaze, something that had not been there before. And Merlin had felt like the man could see him, now. Not the whole of him, for that would have been foolish, but at least _some_ part of him, the part that was disabused and grieving and full of regrets, sick of entertaining hopes and illusions that ended up being disappointed, each time. _A drunkard who mattered to you, then?_ the man had said, not unkindly. His tone had been bitter, but not at _Merlin_. Rather at the world, and it was a bitterness that Merlin could only relate to. _He must be rather special._ A light smile had brushed Merlin’s lips as he had imagined what Gwaine would have replied to those words – _special, you’ll bet! That’s Sir Gwaine you’re talking about, dear sir! Being special comes with the job!_ Taking a sip of ale, he had sighed. _A drunkard who mattered to me_ , he had acquiesced. _A drunkard who became a friend. And a very special man indeed._ The man had raised his own tankard of ale, gesture ridden of its previous theatricality, this time filled with a sort of solemnity, and his eyes had locked with Merlin’s, mirroring his own pain tinged with respect, as he had said, _to drunkards who mattered to us, then._

After that encounter, Merlin had had no other hallucination of Gwaine for the rest of the century. Sometimes, he thought that maybe the whole point of this odd century had been to have the ghosts of his loved ones torment him relentlessly, expecting something from him, and that maybe, just maybe, he had given Gwaine’s ghost just what he needed to be soothed once more: a tribute of some kind. A thought for the drunkard who became a knight. A sort of promise, taking the shape of a raised tankard by two lonely men in a very dark tavern. And a realisation, on Merlin’s part, after a curious encounter with a drunkard who had been every bit as broken as him, that his dear friend would not be coming back any time soon.

Merlin could suddenly feel eyes on him, and he looked up to meet Gwaine’s gaze – Gwaine, who was looking at him rather curiously. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Gwaine said, shaking his head, still looking at Merlin, “’s just… you don’t smile a lot, these days, y’know? So it’s nice. When you do. Smile.”

That’s when Merlin realised that he’d been smiling, without even realising it. He bit his lip, taken off guard.

“I _do_ smile!” he retorted.

Gwaine snorted, although there was some sadness to the sound. “Not a lot, these days. There are times when you look at us, and it feels like you’re seeing ghosts.” Then, rubbing his hands together with a new smile upon his lips: “Alright! So, the Instagram account! You helping me? Please, please, please?”

Merlin, grateful for the distraction, nodded. At the same time, Leon walked past them, and, leaning over Gwaine’s shoulder, he smirked. “Oh, you guys are creating an Instagram account? Neat! Share your username with me so I can follow you once it’s done!”

“ _Follow me_ – don’t tell me you’ve already created one! Oi! Leon! Don’t run away, you coward!”

And just like that, the last of the awkwardness was dissipated as the two friends started working on Gwaine’s account. Choosing a profile picture was a particularly entertaining task as Gwaine seemed unable to decide which photo to use, whether it be the picture of an apple pie or that of a knight’s armour.

Merlin was currently introducing the knight to the selfie mode, but he paused when he spotted Gwen outside, walking on her own.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, and fled.

The layers of snow that had been covering the ground in the morning were now beginning to melt underneath the gleaming eye of the sun, and Merlin could see the back of Gwen’s silhouette, a green-clothed, lithe silhouette crouching in the dirt, reaching for something there. When he sat next to her, caring little for how wet the grass was, he saw Gwen’s hands wipe some snow away in a gesture of tenderness and grace, revealing the tip of a flower there. The flower was yellow, and Gwen chuckled a laugh that soke of melancholy as she calmly brushed its petals.

“My mother – she used to like those, my father said. She’d pluck them and spread them all around my cradle when I was scarcely more than ten months old. Said they would protect me, watch over me, bathe me in their light. Each time she was distressed, she’d braid my hair and tuck a few flowers there, too. After her death, father and I – we’d go and see her grave and lay a bouquet of buttercups there. They looked exactly like these ones,” she added as an afterthought, tone heartbreakingly absent. “Night’s eyes, we used to call them. The stone was grey and the flowers were yellow. Few colours ever looked so beautiful together in my eyes.” She looked to Merlin then, as though only now remembering his presence, and smiled softly. “Father often said that, if he were a poet, he’d write verses about it, endless verses about _her_. _The flowers are all we’ve got_ , he’d often say. He spoke very little of her, you see. Pain does that to some men. But I think he got it wrong. The flowers were not all that we had. We had memories. We should always treasure those. People should not stop existing as soon as their soul leaves their body.”

Gwen had always been able to find meaning in things that seemed to Merlin devoid of it. As the poets looked laid hopeful eyes on this world and somehow managed to see beauty, Gwen went through hell and came back smiling.

It seemed to Merlin that his friend’s soul always had a bit of melancholy in it these days. Perhaps all of their souls would be like that, now. With all that they had seen, he could not envision them being light ever again.

_The ghosts will never leave us, will they?_

“It’s funny,” Gwen whispered, gazing at her fingers, swallowing. She seemed to have noticed the shift in Merlin’s thoughts, the realisation of how broken they all were, and Merlin, not for the first time, marvelled at how easily his friend could read them all. “I’ve been thinking, Merlin… thinking of how I’ve been a daughter, a sister, a friend, even a lover, all of those things… and how, all of those roles that I never chose, I have lost at some point. The only thing I ever remained till I was dead was queen, and this role, I inherited from the death of my husband.” She looked up at Merlin, an odd smile hanging on her lips. “Fate has a twisted way of dictating our lives, does it not?”

And there it was again.

The ghost, lurking behind her back. If one looked only at Gwen’s smile, they would probably have thought her to be faring well – better than any of them, really. But at this instant, Merlin could see that their minds were more alike than most would have thought. He could remember a young Gwen with hope in her eyes, hope at the thought of creating a fairer kingdom, surrounded with friends, and as much as he missed that Gwen, he felt more alike to the Gwen sitting alongside him in the grass now, the Gwen who had laughter in her eyes mingled with a taste of knowledge. _We were both young, once. Both filled with dreams – dreams of building a better world for our loved ones and for ourselves. Illusions, that’s all they were. Now, both our souls are old and damaged, having experienced the cruelty of time and men._ Gwen might not have lived for fifteen hundred years as he had, seeing kingdoms rise and collapse in deafening chaos, but she had seen enough of this world to have an opinion of it, and of the way that fate unravelled around men.

As had they all.

Merlin said the only thing he reply to that, the only thing that _mattered_. “You were always my friend, Gwen.”

Her answer seemed to come just as naturally. “And you, mine.”

She then chuckled, shaking her head, and brushed a hand tenderly on Merlin’s face in a gesture of protection, tenderness and serenity. “Don’t mind me, Merlin. I’m just being silly.”

Merlin had said this enough times in his life to know what truly hid behind her words, but he said nothing.

“I do love you,” she smiled, saying the words naturally, and they should have been just words, words that Merlin had learnt to distrust, for words brought scarce little to an immortal man, but, oddly enough, they filled his heart with a sort of warmth that induced a dangerous feeling inside his heart: a feeling of belonging.

As he looked into her young eyes, pondering on how easily she had said it, how naturally the words had come to her, Merlin saw the years that she had gathered crinkling the corners of his eyes, in spite of her young body, and saw in her a woman who had lived so much that she said the truth as it came.

She was wise, and he told her so.

At that, her eyes twinkled, and she whispered, as a secret: “I had some help.”

Merlin could not help laughing at that, and so did she.

“What’s going on here?” It was Elyan, joining them, his tone falsely threatening. “Is this you trying to seduce my sister, _Emrys_?”

He said it as one would spit another man’s surname, no doubt taking example of the characters of all the movies and series that he’d seen, but the amusement written clearly on his face erased all animosity that his words might have carried.

“Oh, come sit with us, brother,” Gwen smiled.

“On this wet ground?” Her brother wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You and Merlin couldn’t have picked a better spot, could you?”

“Oh, you cranky old man! Just come and _sit_!” she said, chuckling.

“You know,” he began, carefully arranging his long coat as he conceded and sat with them, “one might argue that you are actually older, and therefore more of a cranky person than I – “

“Why, thank you for the piece of advice, brother! Now, I can definitely call myself the elder of us both, in both spirit and age!”

“Now, that’s not what I was implying at all – “

“Oi! What are you three doing here all on your own? Is there a secret reunion going on that I didn’t hear about?”

“If it was secret, we’d definitely not invite _you_ , Gwaine!” Elyan shot back, even though Merlin saw him shuffle to the side and point at the spot next to him, silently inviting the knight to join them. “Now, as I was saying – “

“’S comfy here, I like it. Pretty flower behind your ear, Gwen.”

“I don’t – “ Gwen’s eyes met Merlin’s, who was attempting an innocent smile, and she laughed merrily. “Merlin…”

“Remember all those years ago?” he cut her, remembering the first days of their friendship.

“What _is_ this?” a voice suddenly called, and that was Leon. With Percival standing next to him, seeming amused by the sight of them. “You look like children!”

“Good for you, because you’re not invited. ‘S for family only!”

“How could I not?” came Gwen’s answer. “I was quite besotted with you, I seem to recall.”

Merlin glanced down at his feet, smiling.

“But nothing could have readied me for the beautiful friendship that awaited us,” Gwen softly said. “The light at the end of the tunnel.”

The warlock swallowed. “Have we left the tunnel, though?” He rarely allowed his tone to sound so uncertain, and was grateful that Gwen made no remark on it, and that their other friends seemed too busy to hear his words anyway.

Almost following his remark, he heard one of the knights exclaim, “But we’re all family here, aren’t we?”

And then, here it was – Gwen’s laugh, a laugh that was filled with softness and affection and just the tiniest bit of knowledge. “I think so, yes,” she said, eyes twinkling with laughter, “for I can imagine no other light than the one we are granted now.””

In a corner of his mind, Merlin thought of Arthur and Lancelot, and he wished that they were here with them, too.

_Have I ruined things for us forever?_

He did not know. But as he looked back up and saw his friends laughing together, Gwaine and Percival wrestling in the grass, Leon gathering a bit of snow in the palms of his hands to look down at it in wonder, and Elyan leaning towards his sister to get a closer look at the yellow flower peeking from behind her ear, he wanted to _believe_ , at least, that things would be alright. That the light they were granted now truly would be enough for them.

And, after all, Gwen was right: on all his years on Earth, he had seen no piece of jewel nor ray of sun shine half as brightly as his friends did at this instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> Thank you for reading. :) I really hope you liked it. This probably felt like more of a transition chapter? But I feel that, even though no real conversations about the secrets Merlin keeps were had, it was important to have him talk to his friends, especially Gwen, Lancelot and Gwaine. I really loved writing about them! I hope you didn't mind the way I wrote them, especially Lancelot, but since we didn't have a LOT of scenes with him in the series, I took a bit of liberties ahaha, and same with Gwen since we never got to see her grow old with Merlin, provided that's what happened. And I just love writing Gwaine, so that was just pure fun for me. x)  
> Arthur will probably be much more present in the next chapter, I just really wanted to focus on Merlin's relationships with his friends here, and give a bit of insight on where Merlin stands regarding his relationship with Arthur. ^^ I hope it was nice to read anyway. I know that Merlin's still keeping a lot of secrets, but I don't really want to rush things and so I'd rather try to establish his relationships, etc, before introducing the angst and all (well, I guess the angst is already here, but, you know, all the secrets are not out yet so yeah), than have all the serious conversations happen in a row. And I really want to take my time to go back on the magic reveal too, and address all the issues that I see related to it. I'd like to do it as naturally and realistically as I can, but I don't know if it'll seem as natural as it does in my head. We'll see ahaha.  
> I know not much has happened in this chapter, but I think it was more about establishing the basis for what'll come next, and understanding where each of the characters stands. ^^  
> I hope you liked it and I'd be happy to read about your opinion!  
> Hope you have a great week. :)


	4. Tales of a queen, two knights and a warlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knights hate fairy tales. Merlin and Lancelot have a much-needed conversation. Tales of Camelot are shared as they all remember a kingdom that was never truly the same after Camlann, and a fate that they never truly made peace with. Merlin gets reaccustomed to the feeling of sharing memories with friends, memories that are no longer his only.

“ _And they lived happily ever after_ ,” Gwaine venomously spat, brutally closing the book resting in his lap and placing it on the table in front of him, where a dozen books were already present, set up in uneven piles made of blue, red and brown bindings.

Merlin, who, after taking his shower, had entered the library room in his house to find Gwaine, Percival, Elyan, Leon and Lancelot gathered around the small table, examining the books with a mix of perplexity and distaste, paused in the entrance and stared as the sentence Gwaine had just pronounced echoed in his head.

_Happily ever after._

“That’s just a load of rubbish,” Gwaine was continuing, crossing his arms around his chest. He was disdainfully looking at the books. “Who even _reads_ that stuff?”

“Deluded persons, clearly,” came Elyan’s answer.

“Children, actually,” Lancelot rectified, observing the cover of a book with attention. Merlin tensed, and he saw the knight tilt his head slightly in his direction. Obviously, Lancelot had already noticed his presence here. Merlin felt an unpleasant feeling obstruct his throat. He identified it as shame, and forced himself to swallow, regardless of how hard it was. “ _A children’s tale, perfect to ease the mind and soothe a bad temper_ ,” the knight was reading with a countenance that Merlin admired in light of their earlier quarrel. “That’s what it says. They read this to… to their children.”

“But it’s – it’s all so foolish! There’s always some witch, and a princess and a prince, and sometimes curses and poison and magic spells – “

“Not so different from our life in Camelot, then,” Percival said, shrugging, himself seeming quite enthralled with the blue book he was holding wide open on his knees.

“ _Yeah_ , save for the ending! I mean, look at this one! Have you _read_ it? It tells the story of a girl who’s been cursed by a witch, and yet somehow in the end manages to have her happy ending! How can that be? It’s all awfully absurd!”

“The ending is ridiculous,” Leon assented, keeping a distrustful eye on the piles of books. “Life is nothing like that.”

Merlin abstained from saying that he had himself written his fair share of fairy tales with their fair share of merry endings, instead slipping into the room to say calmly, “Maybe that’s the point of it.”

Gwaine practically _jumped_. “Damn you, Merlin! I didn’t hear you coming here!”

“Sorry.” Merlin gave a sheepish smile, but Gwaine waved his remark off and invited him to sit with them.

“So… you’ve read some of those… things?” he tried to tactfully ask, gesturing at the books in front of him, gesture a bit clumsy.

“A few times.” _A hundred times, and more._ Merlin sat on the floor, grabbed a random book and eyed it curiously. _Huh._ He hadn’t read that one in ages. “Sometimes, it was to understand why we hadn’t got our happy ending like all of those characters, and sometimes, it was to pretend that we had. To allow myself to think, be it just for a few hours, that our ending had been that of a fairy tale.”

Without even looking up from the book, whose cover he had begun to rub at absently, he could feel the knights’ eyes on him as clearly as he could feel the truth slipping through his lips, maybe not _the_ truth, but some kind of truth, anyway, something that was truest than any conversation he had had with his friends before. And maybe he should have stopped talking then, because he knew himself well enough to know that once a bit of truth came out, many other bits were usually quick to follow, but –

“Merlin?”

– but the more he looked at them, since finally he had stopped looking at the book, and the more perplexity he saw, perplexity and bitterness and a sort of dread, and he began to realise that this, they seemed to have in common.

The tragedy of their endings, and their indignation at those whose endings had been written differently, for no relevant reason.

After all, he wasn’t the only one whose life fate had seemed very happy to meddle with.

“’S infuriating,” he finally said, and snorted, looking down at the book in his hands with both reproach and affection. “That they should’ve had their happy ending, and us, not. That they should play the same roles endlessly, knight, witch, dragon and king, with the intrigue always unfolding in the same ridiculous fashion: with the _good_ ones always, or almost, being allowed their happy ending. I – during the first… during the first weeks following my return, I just couldn’t bear listening to those stories, couldn’t bear reading them and listening to the songs. It just made me so _bitter_ , y’know? To think of people who’d had nothing better to do than to make up tales that spoke of good and evil, tales that made people believe in some kind of balance, in some sense of justice, when, in truth, all there is to life is chaos. It drove me _mad_.”

He could see the knights nodding with zeal, but he knew that they had no clue how _mad_ he meant.

“There were people out there, drawing a world that simply did not exist, while we, we’d experienced the real thing, and I just didn’t see the point of writing such things. Those tales that spoke of honour and ideals were the very reason that people got so naïve afterwards, the very reason that they started expecting more from life than it would ever give them.” He swallowed. “Another thing that drove me completely mad was the way that they’d rewritten our stories. I – didn’t want to show you any of it, but I saw you research it, Elyan, and I guess there’s nothing I can do to shelter you from it. You probably know by now of how Arthur’s story has been twisted, turned into a legend of some sort. And it _is_ twisted to me, ‘s twisted to see how they’ve turned something unfair, utterly unfair and wrong and _real_ , into something to be admired on books or paintings. These persons that they’ve made us look like – they’re not us. They’ll never be us.”

He was still brushing the scarlet cover of the book with the tip of his thumb, and mused on how dusty it was. He definitely hadn’t read that one in ages.

Looking up with uncertainty, he instantly caught Lancelot’s eye, and saw the knight almost imperceptibly nod, as though saying, _go on_. There was none of the previous anger in his eyes, no bitterness, no grudge. Instead, his eyes were calm and attentive.

“I can sense a _but_ coming, there,” Gwaine commented, and Merlin, expecting to see laughter in the knight’s eyes, matching that of his tone, was surprised to see gravity there instead.

As he looked upon his friends, one by one, in what seemed to last a minute, but probably only lasted one or two seconds, in truth, he was surprised by what he found on their faces: an odd sense of understanding. Something quite akin to the solemnity that would dawn on their faces before each battle for Camelot’s glory, when came the time for their king’s speech. This was a shared moment, and each of them was as present at the other. They weren’t that different at this instant, for their plea was the same: _stop writing about things that don’t exist!_

 _Who would have thought that a couple of dusty tales and one silly old motto would have been the thing to bind us_ , Merlin mused, _or to at least make some corner of our hearts merge together._

“ _But_ ,” Merlin said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “isn’t there something fascinating about it all? Sure, the _happy ever after_ part can be quite infuriating, but weren’t we also like that, once? Didn’t we try to see good wherever we could? Didn’t we want our world to be better, didn’t we want to _make_ it better? I know that once, I saw beauty in things that I’d think devoid of it, now, and I think you did, too. We didn’t always despise those silly tales. At a time, we even fancied ourselves main characters of it. But then – then it all fell down, didn’t it?” A grim smile brushed the surface of Merlin’s lips. “At some point, we all started falling instead. And reading these books, it’s like – it’s like feeling all these things again. ‘S like taking a huge leap in the past. And, yeah, it’s all bloody ridiculous. True love’s kisses? Toads turning into handsome men?” A nervous chuckle left Merlin’s lips, but he quickly noticed that his friends were laughing, too. Reminiscing things that he, too, was reminiscing. “It’s just the stuff of tales,” he smiled. “But sometimes, _our_ own story felt like a tale, too, and I can even recall a couple of true love’s kisses here and there. Reading this – it reminds me of times when things were much simpler than they are now. And I think I now get why people make up those tales. One thing I’ve noticed, in reading those tales, is some sort of pattern. One thing we’d all like, as humans, I think, is for our existence to have meaning, but also to be merry, and filled with love, and excitement, and have some sense of poetry in it… but the truth is, it rarely does. The gods know that ours didn’t – that ours lacked a closure, a _proper_ closure. But these tales – these tales, they’ve got it all! Everything is exactly where it ought to be, and you just know, deep in your heart, as you begin reading it, that no matter how chaotic it’ll get, the ending _will_ be neat. The ending _will_ be right. There _will_ be an ending, and one that we can live with. One that we can sing songs about. Now, our ending wasn’t that of a fairy tale, we know that, because we were _there_ , but sometimes, all we need, all _I_ need, at least, is to read a story that ends well, as stories _should_ , as we’ve been somehow programmed to believe that they should. Sometimes, to pretend that some place, some time, things were as they were meant to be, is enough. To me, at least.”

Percival smiled. “I think I could learn to make it enough for me, too.”

“As I,” Elyan nodded, eyes soft as he looked at his friends briefly, one by one.

“It sucks, though.” They all glanced up to look at Gwaine, who was eyeing one of the books a bit absently. “That the witch should always be the bad one.”

Instantly, a laugh spread all the way from Merlin’s throat to the edge of his lips, unbidden.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling more amused than frustrated, for once. “Yeah, it really does.”

And, just like that, the solemnity of the moment gave way to a much simpler feeling of safe camaraderie, the knights beginning to express their assent, either by shouting or slamming a fist against the table. Merlin mused that he’d definitely have to remind his friends to be less brutal with his poor furniture. In total, in the span of a few weeks, they’d already broken seven vases, three tables, a dozen alarm clocks, quite a high number of lamps, not to mention the carnivorous plant that they’d almost killed, having had the great idea to feed it _chocolate_. Merlin still suspected Gwaine had been behind it, even though Percival had been kind enough to take the blame. They’d also broken his oven on numerous occasions, broken his toilets, and both flooded and set fire to his house. They’d also attempted to murder the computer a few times, and each other, even though that part had not been intentional.

They were lucky that Merlin loved them so much.

Feeling serener than he had felt in days, the warlock rolled his eyes at the memory of his friends being utter disasters, a slight, natural smile dawning on the edge of his lips.

The knights’ loud laughs and easy chattering, he decided, was one of the most pleasant sounds in the world to him.

“You seem in a different mood from this morning,” a voice said from his right, and Merlin turned to see Lancelot, who quickly raised both hands in the air in a sign of peace. “I’m not trying to start anything, I promise. I’m just… happy to see you like that.”

Merlin looked at the knight attentively for a few seconds, testing his face for any remnants of anger, but when all he found there was polite interest backed with genuine contentment, he sighed softly, choosing to accept his friend’s peace offering.

“Funny. Gwaine said something similar to that earlier.” Merlin looked down at his lap, unsure whether or not to meet his friend’s eye. As much as he tried to, he could not so easily forget Lancelot’s words, and feared that his own gaze might be too calm, too cold, too _indifferent_ , for the other man’s taste. “Something about me smiling,” he muttered. Then, finally looking up at Lancelot, his curiosity too strong to be soothed by his anxiety: “Do I not smile often enough?”

He searched Lancelot’s face actively for answers, having often found that in those sorts of questions, one could often find the answer more easily on a man’s skin than in his words, but all he could read on his friend’s face was something that resembled amused intrigue. “I guess it would depend on what you’d call _enough_ ,” Lancelot carefully said, raising an eyebrow, “but if you asked me, I’d say that the real matter is the way that you smile sometimes.”

Now Merlin was even more intrigue. “The way that I smile?” he slowly repeated, searching Lancelot’s eyes for any sign that he was joking. Now he truly did not understand. How could one smile in a _bad_ way? The last time he had been the subject of such a remark seemed like a thousand lifetimes ago, and the warlock could not refrain the faint memory of his king remarking on his absence of smile. _I haven’t seen you smile these past three days…_ Or had he dreamt it? He sometimes wondered.

“The way that you smile,” Lancelot confirmed with a serious nod. “When your lips quirk upwards, but your gaze doesn’t follow. You’ve got that faraway look in your eyes, but nothing like the look you had just now. More of a look that seems to take you someplace that we just can’t follow. And as for your smile – well, your smile hardly matters then, does it? It’s just part of the façade anyway, just a stone in that great fortress that you build. Just another reminder that you keep yourself from us.”

Against all odds, there was nothing reproachful about his tone, and not even the slightest hint of impatience. Merlin had to say, Lancelot was exceedingly good at keeping his emotions away when the situation called for it. Whenever his emotions would threaten to become a burden, the knight would set up a composure that nothing seemed to be able to shake, dedicating his undissolved attention to the matter at hand.

Merlin’s throat was dry as he asked, “Do you really… notice all of those things?”

It seemed awfully absurd to him that his friends should search his smiles for lies. After all, a smile was a smile, no? Smiling to conceal his pain had seemed to work all of these years, so why would it no longer do the trick, all of a sudden? Why _now_ of all times?

 _Because we know you_ , Gwen would probably say.

But did they?

“Course we do.” Lancelot smiled.

The genuineness in the knight’s words had surprised him at first, but they shouldn’t have, should they? After all, that was Lancelot, that always had been him: stating things as they were. No more, no less. That was the friend whom Merlin remembered, and he so wished he hadn’t disappointed him so earlier.

As though reading his thoughts, Lancelot sighed. “You misunderstood me earlier,” he said. “I never meant to pass judgment, especially not on you, of all people.”

_He, of all people?_

But just as Merlin was about to ask Lancelot why he had said that, one familiar voice in particular caught his attention, and, unable to help it, he raised his head, eyes unable not to search for Arthur’s own, anxious of what he would find there.

After all, he hadn’t seen Arthur since the morning – hadn’t seen him since he had crushed him with the reveal of how long, exactly, he had been dead.

And so instantly, he checked his king’s face for any trace or uneasiness or discomfort, having already prepared himself internally for the worst: dark eyes blazing in hot anger, teeth being gritted in deep resent, or, even worst still, a cold mask of indifference giving Merlin no chance to decipher his king.

But, against all odds, no such feelings were to be seen on Arthur’s face. Sure, his hair was a messy thing, and his skin was of course paler than Merlin would have liked, and there was no denying the past turmoil inside his gaze, but, otherwise, Arthur appeared to be… he appeared to be surprisingly at peace. Well, perhaps not _at peace_ , given that Merlin still knew him well enough to be able to tell that there were many things weighing on the king’s heart, and that the past reveal was one of them, but his present mind was _elsewhere_. Although there was no wide smile perched on his lips, his eyes were filled with a softness that spoke of tranquillity and affection, and his present stance was relaxed enough to suggest that the conversation he was currently having caused him no discomfort. On the contrary, Merlin was even inclined to say that Arthur was _glad_.

Glad, and in good company.

And when Merlin heard the knight sat next to him release an almost imperceptible sigh, before glancing down at his knees, he did not need to look to know who had lifted Arthur’s spirits so.

In truth, he should have guessed: it was obvious. Merlin deduced that he had spent far too many years on the Earth on his own, and had forgotten how the basics of human relationships worked. A man and a woman who were married spent time together. It was only common sense.

As he cast Lancelot a brief glance, it occurred to him that both of them had forgotten that.

Lancelot chuckled slightly, though the laugh was a sad one. “Don’t look at me like that, Merlin. The gods know I don’t deserve it.”

“You don’t deserve it? And what have you done that was so dishonourable?” Merlin asked, averting his gaze from Gwen’s inquiring eye to look at Lancelot’s face and try to read it. Softer, he said: “Fall in love with a woman and cherish her from afar until death took you?” _Death didn’t take him_ , a sordid voice seemed to whisper in his head. _He gave himself to her._ Well. Yet another thing that Lancelot had succeeded in doing, and Merlin had not. “Serve a king faithfully in spite of loving his queen? Sacrifice yourself for a vow that you made to her, a vow to keep his queen safe?” It was Merlin’s turn to chuckle, not unkindly. “None of those things are dishonourable, Lancelot. One might even say they represent an ideal that each man should aspire to. No, don’t laugh like that. I’ll tell you the worst things that you did, if you want. The two very worst things. You did not fight for the woman you loved, even though she loved you back. And you gave your entire self, and your life, for a kingdom that repaid you with scarce little in the face of what you have had to give. And even those things, Lancelot – even those things you did with fair intentions and a true heart. As were all the things that you were. You call this dishonourable, Lancelot?”

The knight sighed, but when his eyes looked back at Merlin, they were smiling. “You know, the vow was just part of the reasons. The truth is, all things converged to that ending. It was to be I, or you, or Arthur. You know each of us would have done what I did. I only got there first.”

Merlin bit his lip, then, finally, he looked at Gwen. She was beaming at the knights, and her smile looked like it could light the whole room. It occurred to him how different she must seem to each of them: while Arthur, Elyan, Gwaine and Lancelot could perhaps believe that she had had a peaceful, content life after their deaths, he, Percival and Leon knew better. Merlin, in particular, knew better.

 _What can I do to make it better for her?_ Facing others’ pain, he felt powerless, and hated the feeling.

“Losing you…” he whispered, unsure how to phrase it, but knowing that he _had_ to say it, that Lancelot _had_ to hear it, be it from him or from Gwen herself. “When we came back, and she saw that you were not with us… losing _you_ … you’ve no idea what it did to her, Lance. Not the slightest idea how guilty she felt.” Merlin swallowed, feeling a bit dizzy, as he always was when looking back at events he hadn’t looked back on for a long time. “How guilty she still feels.” When Lancelot gave no answer, Merlin insisted. “She’s not _well_!”

“I _know_.” Surprised at the harshness in the knight’s tone, Merlin cast him a curious look, and was startled at the turmoil he could see in his gaze. Lancelot usually hid his emotions quite well, but at this instant, his distress was clear to see. Then he closed his eyes briefly, and when he next reopened them, the emotions were gone. Instead, there was an air of serenity and peace in his eyes, and Merlin wondered just how long the knight had been playing at a role.

_I’ve underestimated him._

“Lancelot,” Merlin began again, more softly, “have you two spoken of it? You _have_ to.” He had lived long enough to be able to tell that, if not solved immediately, things tended to rot. _Relationships_ tended to rot. He did not wish for his friends’ relationship to turn into that of two lovers, but he did not wish for them to grow apart, either. They would need each other – need to keep each other’s back.

“Like you and Arthur spoke of the magic?” Lancelot retorted, though there was no true heat to be found in his voice. Only the truth. “Like you and Arthur _sorted things out_?”

Merlin sighed, blaming himself for not having anticipated what Lancelot’s retort would be, and then, unable to help it, he felt his own eyes search for Arthur’s figure once more. Relief filled his heart when he found it. He knew that he ought to look away at some point, gods help him, he _knew_ , and yet he just _couldn’t_. He needed to make sure… needed to know… needed to understand the king’s sudden shift of behaviour.

_Well, not sudden._

After all, Arthur was not alone, was he? He’d probably spent a fair part of the afternoon in Gwen’s company, and, really, why was Merlin even surprised? It made sense. It was actually one of the few things, since his friends had returned, that happened to make sense: a king reuniting with his queen, who he loved and who loved him. Surely this must be the painting that Kilgharrah had envisioned when he had told Merlin of the king’s return, one day: that of a king and a queen who loved each other dearly, while the silent manservant was to remain on the side, far, so very far. How silly of Merlin to expect otherwise. How silly of Merlin to make up another painting entirely inside his head, a painting that was pathetic, especially for an immortal man like him. _It’s not the two of us against the rest of the world_ , he reminded himself, wincing as he thought it. _It’s not like in your dreams, not like in your memories. This is reality, and in reality, people cling to the people they love and who love them in return. It’s a simple thing, really._ There were no monsters to slay, no kingdoms to defend. Only wounds to mend and words to say.

_Is this what the Camelot that we could have built would have felt like? Calm – pointless – bitter?_

He sighed, knowing deep in his heart that nothing good ever came out from thinking of things that could have been.

“It’s not the same thing,” he replied, shaking his head, wondering how Lancelot could not see it. “I mean – look at him.”

“What am I meant to be looking at, exactly?”

Merlin chuckled, and hated the bitterness in that laugh. “His eyes.” Alight with laughter. “His face.” Relaxed. Calm. “The queen at his side.” Beaming. Loving.

“And what am I meant to deduce from it?”

The warlock smiled, all bitterness gone from his heart, leaving room to a sad sort of resignation. “That there’s too much history between us. Lancelot, there can’t be any _sorting things out_ , not between us, not when there are so many things to be sorted out. Arthur – Arthur’s soul needs peace right now, not another layer of drama.”

Merlin may have discharged Arthur from his armour the night before, but he was not so naïve as to think that things between them were back to the way they had left them, nor idealistic enough to suppose that a few talks would be sufficient to bring back order in their relationship. At best, they would live the rest of their lives – or rather the rest of _Arthur’s_ life – distant from each other, knowing that they would never win back what time, fate and people had taken from them. At worst, Arthur would grow to resent things: Merlin. Their friends. Possibly himself. He’d blame himself, undoubtedly. Might even grow to hate himself, and Merlin – Merlin wasn’t willing to take that risk. This was another chance that Arthur had been given, a chance at doing what few men ever could: to start afresh, _with_ his loved ones by his side.

Merlin could hardly blame him if he wanted to leave it all behind – _it_ meaning their past. _It_ meaning _Merlin_ , Merlin and all of the things that he embodied. He was not just a _person_ , not just a _being_ whose aches could be fixed with a couple of words. Merlin was a _ruin_ , and for each brick that was uncovered, another two appeared. He was full of secrets, full of events, full of memories. He had enough memories inside him to drive a man mad, and enough pain and rage in his heart to turn the world deaf with his cries only.

It wouldn’t do Arthur any good to look back upon such things – wouldn’t do any of them any good, in fact. What he needed right now was people to tug him upwards, not downwards.

Ruins were not meant to be explored by those who had shaped them. And, whether he liked it or not, Merlin was one. He was one peculiar kind of ruin, and anyone who came near him would either be kept away by the heavy breeze of memories that he carried, or spun inside by the intensity of it all. The truth, unpleasant as it might be, was that Merlin had nothing else to give to his friends, and that, should they come too near, he would drag them into his own misery, and steal from them their chance at a normal life.

Or, at the very least, a _better_ one.

And wasn’t that the keyword? _Their chance._ Arthur’s chance, Gwen’s chance, Lancelot’s chance; not Merlin’s.

_Their chance at a happy, peaceful life._

There was no way that Merlin was going to take that away from them by burdening them all with the luggage that he carried. _I’m not going to be a dark shadow, perched on Arthur’s shoulders, slowing his every step. I’ll let him move on, even if I have to fight myself to ensure it. I won’t mingle with their lives. I’ll just stick to mine._

“And what of your soul, Merlin?”

Lancelot’s voice, distant, was filled with a sadness that Merlin could not explain, and so was his smile when he turned curious eyes on him.

“Never mind.” Lancelot shook his head softly, and the gesture was so weary that Merlin’s heart ached for the knight’s heart. “Never mind, my friend.” But as he was about to stand up, Merlin grasped his sleeve, and tried to catch his eye. “Merlin?”

“I…” Merlin’s throat was dry. He was afraid, he realised. He couldn’t seem to forget what he had seen earlier in the knight’s heated gaze – anger, of course, but, worst of all, _disappointment_. “If I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?”

“When have I ever lied to you, Merlin?”

Merlin gave a brief nod. He swallowed. Trying to win time. He licked his lips. “Did you… would you…”

“Merlin.” The knight laughed lightly, even though Merlin could sense the gravity in it. Lancelot was worried. “It’s just me. Ask away.”

Merlin smiled shortly, and looked away, focusing his eyes on a spot in the room. The window. That was nice. “Is there… any… version of me that you might hate?”

“Are you really asking me this?” Why did he seem angry again? “Merlin, are you really – ?“

“Just _answer_ the question, please!” Merlin snapped. “I just want to know if there’s any – any _way_ that I might exist, that you could…” He sighed loudly, pressing a palm to his forehead. This had been foolish. “You know what? Forget it. That was just me being – stupid. Forget it.” He smiled a smile that he had practised for centuries, and Lancelot seemed offended.

But as he’d been about to stand up, jumping on the occasion to flee this stupid, ridiculous conversation, it was Lancelot’s turn to grab both his shoulders and keep him there, urging him to meet his gaze.

“I won’t claim to understand all that you’re saying, Merlin, but… if your question is whether I could ever hate you, in any situation, in any world, then my answer is no. A firm, categoric _no_.” Then, tilting his chin in a direction behind Merlin, he added: “And I’m fairly certain that _his_ answer would be the same as mine.”

Merlin, cheeks flushed for some unexplained reason, nodded quickly before heading for another corner of the room, muttering about putting the kettle on to prepare some tea. He could still hear Lancelot’s words echoing inside his head, and they felt like… some kind of comfort. _In any situation, in any word…_

Musing about the words and wondering to what extent they applied, he barely paid attention to where he was walking, knowing the way from the sofa to the kitchen entrance by heart and therefore not needing to bear his surroundings any attention, and so he practically jumped when he ran into somebody who was wearing a crimson sweatshirt and socks decorated with a blue-and-yellow flag, and, oh –

“ _Mer_ lin!”

Biting his lip, prepared for the worse, Merlin glanced up… and frowned.

“Why – why are you smiling?”

“ _Smiling?_ ” The king opposite him frowned, but the smile was still on his face, clear as day. “I’m not smiling.”

“Yes, you are. With your –“ Merlin gestured with his hands awkwardly, “– eyes, and all.”

He wasn’t making up anything: although Arthur’s lips weren’t exactly quirked into a proper smile, his eyes were soft, and this time, they were not resting on his queen. This time, they were resting on his manservant, who knew, although no word of it had been stated aloud, that he had angered him earlier, and maybe even disappointed him. And so Merlin had been expecting Arthur to be avoiding his eye, having felt something irreparable crumble between them earlier in the day.

And yet there was no anger to be seen in his king’s eye, no coldness, no indifference; on the contrary, they were _smiling_.

At him.

The warlock, still stunned, found nothing better to mutter than a short, clipped, “I’m not Gwen.”

Merlin could see Arthur’s own eyebrows frown in elegant disarray as he said, “Yes… I… noticed.”

“Right.” Nervously, Merlin licked his lips. “Then why are you smiling at me?”

Arthur seemed on the verge of hysteria as he exclaimed, “I’m not smiling!”

Merlin internally revelled at how easily he still managed to get on the king’s nerves.

“Yeah, you are! Your eyes are practically _beaming_ right at me –“

“Oh, really, then if we’re going to be playing this game, I may just as well say that _your_ eyes were practically _screaming_ earlier – “

“Earlier, how on Earth would you know –“

“Alright, alright, boys!” And there was Leon, come to stand between the two of them, gesticulating, asking for silence. “Arthur. If you could stop harassing our Merlin…”

“Harassing _your_ Merlin – ?”

In a spur of childishness, Merlin was unable to refrain a look of triumph in Arthur’s attention, and he was surprised when the king dd not seem to react to it, simply… gazing at him, with that same odd look of fondness etched to his face. Merlin raised his eyebrows expectantly. _What?_ Arthur shook his head, a hint of exasperation mingling with the fondness.

Why wasn’t he insulting Merlin yet?

“Come on, Merlin,” Leon’s voice urged him as the knight tilted his head towards the kitchen, apparently quite intent on accompanying Merlin there.

Shrugging, Merlin agreed to follow him, although not without casting a few glances in Arthur’s direction, genuinely surprised by the king’s unexpected shift of behaviour, in no way comparable to his earlier steely composure that still made Merlin shiver when he thought back on it.

“Why is he like that?” he could not help asking aloud as soon as they’d entered the kitchen, grabbing the kettle at the same time to fill it with water. “He’s so – odd. He was _smiling_ at me. Why would he –”

Leon sighed loudly from where he was leaning against the work surface, shooting Merlin another exasperated look. Why was everyone exasperated with him right now?

“I should think that _Gwen_ spoke to him about it.”

“About it?” Merlin frowned, shaking his head. “About _me_?” He laughed at the absurdity of the idea, focusing on standing on his tiptoes to grab his favourite winter tea from the top of the cupboard. He smiled contentedly when he breathed in the scent of it. The herbs in that one always seemed to remind him of those that Gaius used in Camelot for the infusions he prepared, and so he tried to save it for special occasions. He doubted that any occasion more special than this one would ever come. _It doesn’t get better after this._ The thought made him vaguely melancholic.

“Would that be so surprising?” Leon was insisting in the meantime. “Isn’t that something that our queen has done several times in the past? Knock some sense into heads that were too stubborn for their own good?”

At that, Merlin couldn’t help smiling fondly, remembering the numerous occasions on which Gwen had saved Camelot from ruin by reminding those around her of the things that mattered.

“It does sound like our Gwen,” he said, nodding, absently scratching his neck against the cold material of the tea box. He then cleared his throat, remembering Arthur’s air of fondness when he’d entered the room with Gwen alongside him. “Well, that’s good. He’ll need her wisdom if he wants to survive this century.” He chuckled forcibly, glancing down at his feet. And practically jumped on his spot when he heard Leon curse lowly in words of the old language. “ _Leon, are you –_ “

“You’re both as stubborn as the other, has anyone ever told you that?” the knight snapped, snatching the box from Merlin’s hands and preparing the tea it in his stead.

“Gwen’s not _that_ stubborn, she’s –“

“I was talking about you and _Arthur_ , Merlin!”

“Oh.” Merlin frowned. “But why would you –“

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, won’t you two do us a favour and actually try and _say_ the things that you _mean_?”

The knight looked utterly fed up, and Merlin wondered how he hadn’t noticed that earlier.

“Why is everyone so intent on shouting at me today?” he muttered, but instantly closed his mouth when Leon scowled at him.

_Damn._

“Oh, trust me, my anger for Arthur is just as vivid, if not more,” his friend said, at the same time pouring some water in the mugs with astounding control, contrasting with the anger in his tone. “I bet you two haven’t spoken of the magic yet, have you?” Apparently reading the answer on Merlin’s face, he shook his head exasperatingly, glancing at the ceiling, perhaps thinking a prayer for the gods. “Of course. After all, why would he listen to me?” the knight kept muttering, while Merlin just stared, in shock. “I’m only his oldest friend. Why should my opinion matter? Stubborn Pendragons… at least Guinevere _did_ manage to knock a bit of sense into that head of his, but apparently, not enough… Would it _kill_ him to listen every once in a while? Just _once_ would be nice!”

“Leon, you’re… you’re spreading water everywhere.” His hand had finally begun to shake, and there was a sort of comfort in seeing Leon act like a human being, at last.

“Right. Sorry,” the knight mumbled, finishing to pour the water. Then, once he was done, after a few awkward seconds of silence, he looked up at Merlin, and said: “Seriously, though. _Speak to Arthur._ ”

“What for?” Merlin snapped back, feeling his magic begin to whisper underneath his skin. He shushed it. “I mean… what good will it bring him? His last moments of life were already ruined by my secrets; I won’t let them ruin this new beginning for him, too.”

His tone was categorical, and yet Leon still found a way to retort, “You don’t give him enough credit, you know. For all your talks of what a great king he is, when it comes to your sake, you always seem afraid to consider the best of him. Do you really imagine Arthur will be content with your doings for Camelot remaining unsaid? Really?”

Irritated, Merlin grabbed a tray, preparing a plate for the biscuits, before looking up at Leon and firmly saying, “I won’t burden Arthur with my secrets. And neither will you.”

“AAARGH! I can’t stand Gwaine! How does anyone stand Gwaine? How did _we_ use to stand Gwaine back in Camelot?”

Percival, strong fingers tugging at his own hair furiously, was just now entering the kitchen, and hot anger was practically _radiating_ from the man as he kept articulating complaints, most of them unsurprisingly aimed at Gwaine.

“ _Did_ we stand him, though?” Leon wondered, taking his eyes off Merlin to direct them on poor Percival, who was now leaning against the wall, sighing.

“Fair interrogation,” the knight nodded, chuckling although he seemed to be on the verge of tears. Merlin kept an eye on the exchange, a bit fascinated and scared. “Technology has _definitely_ made him worse, though. That, and the absence of bandits to hunt down.”

“Each night, I wonder if the house will still be standing come dawn.”

“Hey!” Merlin felt compelled to intervene. “Come on, he’s not _that_ bad.”

His friends shot him a pair of unimpressed looks.

“That’s because he _likes_ you,” Percival scoffed, to which Leon nodded.

“What?” Merlin frowned. “He likes all of us.”

“Yeah, but he has a soft spot for you. As does Gwen.” Once more, Leon acquiesced energetically. “What were you two talking about, anyway?”

“Tea.”

“Memories.”

Leon and Merlin exchanged a short glance, and then finally, Merlin relented.

“Alright,” he admitted, glancing down at the tea-infused water, that had begun to take a red taint, “Leon’s right, we were talking ‘bout – memory stuff. Camelot, magic, and all that. Leon wants to tell Arthur about everything.”

“Shouldn’t we?” Percival asked, frowning. “After all, Arthur’s gonna want to know at some point. That’s Gwaine’s opinion on the matter, too.”

“For heaven’s sake!” Merlin exclaimed. “Have you _all_ spoken about it?”

Their looks told him everything he needed to know.

“I just don’t want to –"

“ – burden Arthur with it, yes.” When Merlin shot him a surprised look, Percival shrugged. “What? You’re quite obvious, Merlin. Well. Not always. But in this case, you are. Do you remember how long it took _us_ ,” he gestured at Leon and himself, “to get the truth out of you?”

Leon rose his eyes to heaven. “Ages.”

“It took you a year to tell us about your father.”

“Two to tell us about Emrys.”

“And another ten years to speak of the whole Morgana business.”

“All we mean, Merlin,” Leon said, leaning forward, “is that we’re no strangers to your odd relation to secrets. I remember the day you walked back into Camelot, empty-handed, eyes lost, as if it were only yesterday. We’re not expecting you to say it all in the span of a few nights, far from it.”

“However,” Percival gently continued, “this is not just about your secret any longer. The Camelot that Guinevere ruled over… it was our Camelot, too, and Arthur deserves to hear of it. And _we_ deserve to share it with him. This is not only _your_ secret.”

Merlin bit his lower lip, reluctantly accepting the knights’ words. Damn them for being so reasonable. “Don’t you think Gwen’s already told him of it, though?”

“Oh, come on, it’s obvious she and Arthur spoke of _you_ this afternoon,” Percival said, rolling his eyes.

“ _What, why are you all –"_

“She’d have wanted you to be here for it,” Leon calmly said, gaze serious. “Wanted us all to be here.”

Merlin looked down at his feet, playing with his sleeves. “I don’t want to speak of grief.”

“You won’t have to,” Percival softly said.

The warlock remained silent for a few seconds, thinking about the knights’ words, and when he looked back up at them, his eyes were charged with resolve.

“You won’t tell him of the state I was in when I returned to Camelot,” he warned, keeping his tone firm. Truth be told, he could barely remember the state he’d been in, keeping of these days – or rather _months_ – a rather hazy memory, struggling to recollect the arms that had embraced him and the faces that had tried to soothe him. “You won’t tell him of my – _lost eyes_ , as you put it. He mustn’t know.”

“Merlin –"

“He. Mustn’t. Know.” He took a deep gulp of air, and looked at the two knights gravely. “Do we have an agreement?”

“I don’t like this, and I think you’re underestimating him,” Leon said. “But your grief is not ours to speak of, and if he hears of it, then he won’t have heard it from us.”

Merlin tilted his head forward, silently thanking the knights. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

.

Leon smelled like wood, steadfast and permanent.

Percival smelled like freshly baked bread and comfort.

Elyan smelled like water mingling with the earth, a sense of familiarity.

Gwaine smelled like crisps, beer and broken laughter.

Gwen smelled like snow caught in the trees, soft and free and welcoming.

Arthur smelled like sunlight piercing through a storm, like a burning embrace in the cold, like a home in a world filled with strangers.

As for the living room, it smelled of memories, bitter and sweet, falling like raindrops from one’s mouth to another’s heart. There were fragments of memories falling all around them, and all that was left for them to do was to try and catch them as best as they could, in a vain attempt to grasp a past that was no longer theirs no control. They were begging for memories, hearts wide open, but the memories were scarce, and on Merlin’s own heart, they revealed themselves as both a balm and a fistful of salt, soothing and irritating.

Such was often the way with memories. Fickle things, they were, their shape varying from one man’s head to the next. Merlin had plenty of them, and in his dreams, they often met his wishes halfway, and so they turned into some sort of hybrid creature the warlock could seldom rely upon.

And so, at this instant, he was content, simply listening to his friends, either cracking a smile or hiding a frown depending on the pieces of memories that were being exchanged.

The night of sad recollection he’d been expecting did not, in fact, occur. Of course, not all the memories were bright, and many, too many, brought tears to his friends’ eyes, but there were also others, glimpses of joy and love and reunion, that, contrastingly so, seemed to bring genuine laughter to his friends’ lips.

_I could watch them laugh forever and never grow tired of it._

When Arthur once more caught Merlin’s eye, and _smiled_ at him, Merlin couldn’t help it: he turned to Gwen, who was sitting at his right, and, leaning towards her, whispered, “Did you… say something to him? About me?”

At that, she laughed. “Simply the truth.” Merlin frowned, wondering which truth specifically Gwen had shared with Arthur. “That you’re entitled your own secrets. That we’ve no right to pop back into your life and demand that you tell us everything. That when you feel safe, you’ll tell us what you’ll want to tell us, and that’ll be it.”

“And he… listened?”

“Arthur hates secrets. We both know that. But what he hates above all is being told lies, and if giving you your space is what it takes to prevent that from happening, then, yes, he’ll do it. So, yes, Merlin, he listened. And now look at him, he can barely take his eyes off you.”

Merlin instantly looked up, catching Arthur’s eye, _again_ , and, seeing the smile gracing Arthur’s lips, he gave a tentative smile in return.

“Oh, and what happened to The Rising Sun?” Gwaine suddenly asked, quite loudly. “With me gone, I’ll bet they lost their best client.”

“Yes, I think they do,” Percival nodded, frowning thoughtfully. “I met no other man who could hold his liquor quite as you did, Gwaine.”

“I should hope not!”

As the conversation drifted back to casual topics, Merlin watched his friends attentively, feeling more and more comfortable sitting here with them, grateful for their presence. Looking at them, the warlock wished that he could wrap in his magic, never to let them go. Keep them safe. Together.

“Did Camelot prosper after – after Camlann?”

Hearing Arthur’s inquiry, voiced in a voice where concern mingled with uncertainty, Merlin instantly felt his head shoot upwards, and, before he could control them, the words were already leaving his mouth.

“Gwen was a _fantastic_ Queen, although the kingdom that she inherited was not without its fractures. Camlann broke Camelot, and had any other ruler worn the crown that Gwen was burdened with, I doubt they would have managed to restore it to its former glory as well as she did. Camelot was frail, her people heartbroken, and Gwen gave them faith. That is how she saved them. She did not share the crown with any man or woman, although she did listen to the opinions of all, great or small. Her rule was a just one, and despite having numbers of councillors by her side, by the end of the day, she, and she alone, carried the weight of the kingdom she ruled over. And she carried it well. With pride and resolve. She wore the crown better than most well-born princes and princesses are taught to, and accomplished the duties that came with it, with all her heart. For the length of her rule, she worked at making Camelot a home for her people – for _all_ her people. The warriors and the widows, the elder and the younger, and those who had magic.”

When Merlin finally looked at Gwen, he could see her eyes gleaming, half with tears and half with reflections of the candles resting on the table, and he could tell she, just like him, had pictures of Camelot flowing like rivers inside her head. She remembered all of the kingdom that she had gathered inside her grieving arms, all of the weeping kingdom that she had held, as she’d fallen to her knees and helped it rise again. She remembered the weight of the crown, made even heavier by the weight of the people, the weight of their tears. This had been a kingdom in grieving, and she had had to bury the memories of her dead so as to focus all of her attention on making sure that its people would, one day, laugh again. Camlann had not only broken hearts of friends and widows and children; it had taken a king, a king who was loved, and with him had been gone the hopes that they’d sheltered in a small corner of their hearts. And so Gwen had had to do her best to catch the dreams that her husband had left unfinished, and to try and make them live, carrying at the same time a kingdom grieving the death of a king. Had she ever had a chance to grieve for the man?

Merlin could not say. They’d seldom spoken of their respective grief, preferring to warm each other’s heart with merry memories that tasted like tears and laughter. All he knew was what Gwen’s eyes would tell him, and when she had sat on that throne, what he had seen in them had been the grief caused by the loss of a king, not a husband, not even a friend.

Sometimes, he’d found himself wishing that things were simpler, and suspected that she had, too. Wished that they were friends and family rather than guardians of a kingdom, bearers of a legacy, mere pawns of a destiny. Wished they’d been allowed to grieve properly, as men were taught to grieve: in their own time.

But life was short, and Gwen had had to sacrifice some things in order to make hers meaningful for Camelot. Her right to grieve had been one of those things.

At times, back in Camelot, lying in his bed in the dead of night, mind haunted with images of his friends being reduced to ghosts, ghosts who kept going for the sake of a kingdom and of a king’s memory, Merlin would reflect that Camlann had claimed all of their souls, in the end. Not just that of a warrior. Camlann, by taking the king, had taken the hopes and ideas of an entire kingdom. Camlann, by taking Arthur, and Gwaine, and so many others, had broken the hearts of friends who would have liked nothing more than to die in their stead. Camlann had made ghosts of them all, and none of them had returned from that battlefield intact. They’d all lost something out there, in the midst of a battle that had smelled of blood and sweat and fire. Merlin could still remember the scent of death in his sleep, and the sight of the inert bodies of the ground and the forever scarred bodies that returned. A hoard of ghosts that would never live fully again.

And his dreams did not lie: after Camlann, none of them were ever the same persons again. How could they, when they carried in their hearts the faces of their dead and the injustice of their loss? There was no making peace with that. They didn’t want to make peace. _Merlin_ didn’t want to make peace. _When Albion’s need is greatest, Arthur will rise again._ Until he had proof of that, he did not have it in himself to forgive whatever being had cast Camlann in their way, be it fate, life, or himself.

Camlann had been a point of non-return, like a stab to the heart, a dark burst of laughter at the naïve ideal that they’d entertained.

“Camelot…” Merlin’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat, blinking repeatedly to keep his tears away. “In the end, Camelot rose again, and we’ve Gwen to thank for that.”

“Aye.” Leon’s tone was categoric as his gaze rested on their queen, reverent and solemn. “She gave us hope.”

“It was nice to believe in something again,” Percival nodded, shoulder brushing Gwaine’s, eyes a bit absent. “In some _one_.”

“You deserved better than a broken crown and a fractured kingdom,” Arthur said lowly, eyes meeting Gwen’s, then Merlin’s. “You all did.” His eyes, although filled with melancholy and guilt, were also filled with life, and Merlin tried to carve their memory inside his soul. Once, he’d thought he would never see these eyes again. Once, all he’d had of Arthur had been memories and old trinkets. Now, he wanted to throw himself in his arms and stay there until his heart acknowledged the certainty that _Arthur was back_. That Camlann no longer ruled their lives. That they were back in fate’s good graces. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you that.” As he spoke, he looked at each and every one of them, Lancelot and Elyan, who had left them first, then Gwaine, who nodded, then finally Leon and Percival, Gwen, and Merlin. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” He shook his head, anguish so plainly written on his face that Merlin’s heart clenched within his chest. “I had the easy part.”

“ _No!_ ” Merlin exclaimed. He could feel their eyes on him. “No. You did not. We all had terrible parts.” He looked at Arthur, and tried to smile. “We all did. You did not deserve a broken crown either, much less a fractured kingdom. You inherited a bloody legacy, and were not given the time to fix it. That’s all there is to this story.” Arthur’s gaze was hesitant, but Merlin’s tone was firm. “That’s _all_ we need to say of it,” he insisted. “None of the roles were pretty, but we had to play them, and now, it’s done. It’s over.”

The gaze that Arthur cast on Merlin did not seem entirely convinced, but he nodded all the same. “Alright,” he said.

“We weren’t alone,” Percival intervened, voice fragile. Gwaine had one arm wrapped around the knight’s waist, and Merlin suddenly remembered the knight’s retelling of how Gwaine had been taken from them. _He said he’d failed._ “We had each other, and I thank the gods each night for that.”

Merlin looked at Percival, Leon, and Gwen, musing on the fact that they’d found their way towards each other again, fifteen hundred years later, on the same bit of earth, but centuries away from the Camelot they’d known.

_We had each other._

“We did,” Gwen whispered. Her eyes were soft. Soft, and alive. “Remember, Merlin? You were the arms that held me when this world had had enough of me. The voice that soothed me. Do you remember?”

The warlock closed his eyes briefly, hands shaking. “Yes, Gwen. I remember.”

The memory made him feel dizzy, and he gripped the fabric of the sofa tightly.

“Wait.” That was Arthur’s voice. Arthur, who, sitting opposite Merlin around the small table, was now leaning over it, eyes trailing over Merlin’s figure, heating his skin where they went. He had his eyes still fixed on Merlin when he addressed Gwen. “You died… in Merlin’s arms?” There was something undecipherable in the king’s eyes, but also in his tone; his voice, low, appeared dangerous, to a certain extent.

Merlin could hear him raise his tone slightly, but he never heard what Artur said, because already he was standing up, muttering some excuse that miraculously came as naturally as any other lie he had told in the last centuries. _Lies are what I’m made of. Lies, and unspoken names of the dead._ Quietly, the warlock left the room, and, finding that he was in need of some fresh air, he slipped outside like a shadow, walking until his hands found a tree to lean his back against. Only then did he stop to stay there, eyes closed, listening to the sound of his hollow breaths.

Merlin liked trees.

Camlann’s battlefield had had too little of them, as did most battlefields, come to think of it. Too little trees, and too many bodies on the ground.

From the window in the room where Gwen’s spirit had left her body, one could see a beautiful tree stand proudly, Merlin could recall. It was an old tree, an old oak, old, strong and sturdy. When Gwen’s heart had stopped beating, Merlin had wanted to leave the room using the window, to just – jump on the tree and go down that way, if only to avoid the grim faces he knew he would meet on his way down the stairs. He’d seen enough rulers die to know what those faces looked life, to know of the misery that transpired in them. The more loved the ruler was, the harder it got to look at the faces. And Gwen – oh, she was loved.

People placed incredible faith in their sovereigns, but, in the end, even with a crown on their head, men were just men, therefore, mortal.

It mattered little to the eyes of the gods or any entity up there that Gwen had been a queen. She was still made of flesh and bones, like the rest of them. Like Arthur.

And it mattered little to Merlin that people sang songs of Arthur and Gwen afterwards, and all of the other queens and kings once they were gone from this world. It did nothing to change the fact that they were gone, never to return.

Gone. Dead. Buried.

One speck in a lonely graveyard.

Existing nowhere else than in people’s memories, books, stories.

_And in my skin. Each body I held as death stroke, I can remember with frightening clarity – every breath and sob and touch. I never forget the deaths. The last seconds of life. The last instants when the people are still mine, and not yet death’s._

“How many of us have you had to hold, weeping, as life left our bodies?”

The warlock barely reacted to the words, them being so concordant with his current thoughts. He didn’t look up. Instead, he replied, simply, “I don’t know.” Sniffing, he allowed his gaze to brush the skin of his hands, but found that he could not see them. Night had fallen over their heads. So many misfortunes, these hands had seen. So many misfortunes, they had created. “I really don’t know.”

“Oh, Merlin.”

“I know.” Merlin looked up at Arthur, whose silhouette he could barely trace with his eyes. The lights of his house in the background, with its great windows, underlined the gold of Arthur’s hair. The natural grace of his traits. The heaviness of his gaze. _So heavy._ “I know, Arthur.”

“How did you bear it?” Arthur’s voice was quivering, which was one thing that it never did. No matter how tense the situations got, his voice was one of the things that always seemed to remain in his control, firm and assured, bearer of his will. Now, there was no such regal assurance in Arthur’s tone. He sounded _lost_. “How did you… how _could_ you… let us…”

“I don’t know.” Comforted by the night around him – Merlin had always loved the night –, he took a few steps forward, allowing his eyes to meet Arthur’s at last, and to stay there. There was no other place they’d rather be looking at. “I don’t know.”

“How could you let us do that to you? How could you, Merl – “

“I don’t know.” Merlin wrapped his arms around Arthur’s back and rested his head against his friend’s chest, keeping his grip loose, happy with the tickling of Arthur’s breath against his forehead. He crashed his forehead against the king’s shirt, and closed his eyes. He never wanted to look at the world again. “I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t have – “

“Yes, you would. Don’t be daft. You would’ve held me, too. Would’ve held every single one of us.”

His voice was muffled by Arthur’s shirt, but he could tell that Arthur heard him, because all of a sudden, the king was releasing a breath he probably hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and his arms were wrapping around Merlin, too. One hand curled around the back of his neck, protectively, keeping him there, and Merlin sighed in contentment, musing that he wasn’t going anywhere. He felt another hand brush his back and tug him closer, closer, closer, until no gust of wind, no matter how fierce, could go between their two bodies.

Merlin felt his knees weaken underneath his weight, and all of a sudden, he was no longer just _standing against Arthur_. All of a sudden, he was holding him, grasping his shirt as tightly as he could, his body saying what his tongue could not, and Arthur was holding him just as strongly, if not more, tucking his chin on top of his head and stroking the warlock’s hair in a gesture that felt both tender and needy.

_He needs me as I need him._

The thought was an odd comfort, because it gave Merlin faith that Arthur wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t going to leave. Not just now.

“You’re glowing,” Arthur whispered in a tone full of wonder.

Merlin chuckled. “Why, thank you.”

“No, I mean – you’re _literally_ glowing.”

“Come on, Arthur, I’m not –“

But then Merlin glanced down at his body, and he noticed that he was, in fact, very much glowing. He began to fidget nervously, wondering if his head and arms gleamed too, but Arthur grumbled unhappily and tightened his arms around him.

“I want you here.”

“You don’t mind my – ?”

“Why would I? I just want you here.”

“I’m shining like a star. Maybe I’ll burn you.”

“You’re as dangerous as a lizard, Merlin.”

“Actually, lizards can be very –“

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“Alright, alright. Could you just – put your hand back in my hair? Here, it was nice. Yeah.”

“You’re like a little cat.”

“Shut up.”

Merlin looked up at Arthur, smirking at him, and then they were both laughing.

“They’re beautiful,” Merlin mused a bit later, as they were both facing the house.

With their eyes, they could trace their friends’ silhouettes standing in the living room, and as he saw them gesticulating in the distance, Merlin thought that it looked like a dance of some kind, seem from there. A dance of souls finally reunited. Souls that, even after fifteen hundred years spent apart, still seemed to know each other by heart. The souls seemed to say, _our Camelot may no longer stand, but we do_ … and Merlin admired their courage, he admired them, and wished that he were more like them. Here, at this time of night, they looked every bit like the characters from the fairy tales they'd been speaking of earlier.

Giving Arthur’s hand one last squeeze, the warlock sighed deeply, trying to anchor the feeling of his king's arms around him in one precious corner of his mind. Part of him felt like they were back in Camelot, he and Arthur standing at a fair distance from the rest of the group, speaking words that no one but the other could hear. Another part of him, though, knew that things would never be the same again. He focused harder on remembering Arthur’s touch. The stars only knew when he would know such a moment again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you're well, and that you enjoyed reading this.  
> Please don't hesitate to tell me what you thought of it!  
> I'm happier with the chapter's ending that with its beginning/middle; although I loved writing about Merlin's interaction with Lancelot, it took me sooooo long and I'm still not sure I'm completely happy with it.  
> But writing about Camelot after Camlann was soooo inspiring, and the topic will definitely come back in the chapters to come!  
> This chapter was really, for me, just about remembrance (does this word exist?), and about the last inhabitants of Camelot remembering, as a whole, the kingdom they left behind.  
> And also more about the interactions between characters other than Merlin, who I felt I'd sort of neglected so far. ^^  
> I also really wanted to underline the bond that I see between Merlin, Gwen, Leon and Percival, since they were the only four who survived Camlann. There are so many interesting dynamics!  
> I really hope you liked it, and that you find these dynamics as interesting as I do ^^  
> It wasn't my favourite chapter to write and I'm actually looking forward to the next one, where (hopefully) there'll be quite some drama and tensions and secrets. This chapter felt a bit slow, but I felt like it was needed? For me at least ahaha. And there'll be a lot more angsty dialogue in the one to come. (which will, hopefully, take me less time to write than this one did) :)  
> so, yeah. Really, really hope you liked it, and that you have a very nice day/night :)


	5. Guilty victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knights and Merlin have a talk about guilt. Well... a 'talk' is a nice way to put it. Tensions rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> I'd just like to warn you that at the end of the chapter, there's a scene that MIGHT be scary? I mean, there's not any physical violence in it, but it's a dream, and it could be a bit upsetting.  
> Maybe I'm just finding it scary because I just wrote it and it's the middle of the night and all, so I'm pretty tired, but I'd rather warn you just in case you might find nightmares scenes upsetting. Maybe this scene is not upsetting at all and it's just me haha, but just in case. :)  
> Hope you enjoy reading if you do read :D

Kilgharrah had once told Merlin that while guilt served the common of mortals, to souls that lived forever, like his, it would do poor little other than weigh them down. He could almost hear the old dragon’s voice echo inside his head, deep and rumbling, a bit like thunder, as his words of advice would fall upon the warlock, striking, again, a bit like thunder.

 _Young warlock_ , Merlin could recall him saying with something akin to empathy dancing in his eyes, _living forever shall test your strengths. Sturdy as I may look, I am no stranger to feelings such as guilt and regret. These are the feelings that test you the most; they prey on your loneliness and self-doubt and try to make a shadow out of you. Do not let them. To live forever is a fate that I would wish upon no man, and yet, if I were to name a candidate for the role, I would name you without the slightest hint of hesitation._

Merlin had scoffed then. _You would condemn a man who has failed as much as I to an eternity of remorse and grief? I didn’t think you so cruel as that, old friend._

The dragon had shot him a hard look. _You misunderstand me. What you take as words of sentence are in truth words of praise. The truth, young warlock, is that I can see no man better suited than you for such a terrible task. No man_ wiser _. Which is why I give you this advice: the guilt that you carry, you must overcome._

 _Overcome?_ Merlin had laughed at the absurdity of the dragon’s words. _Am I to forget all the lives that I have condemned? I’m afraid I can’t forget as easily as you._

He had regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth, but Kilgharrah, although casting a suddenly very weary look at the ground, did not snap back at him. Instead, he calmly replied, _not forget, no. Merely… let go. Accept that things were as they were, and that now, they are over. The gods did not make you immortal so that you could dwell over things of the past, just like they did not grant me a long life so that I could drown in my sorrow. We are more than that, you and I. Creatures of the Old Religion. We won’t let it break us. There is a purpose to your life, as there was one to mine. You need to find it, and to do that, you need to let go of your guilt._

 _You’re asking me to forget_ , he had spat.

The dragon had shaken his head. _No. I’m asking you to be reasonable. Guilt will get you nowhere; memories, on the other hand, shall keep you from doing many mistakes. It is crucial that you remember – crucial that you remember how to doubt._ Always _doubt, young warlock. Do not trust the words of men. Doubt is what will keep you sane._

Merlin’s eyes had darkened. _But guilt won’t._

Nodding, Kilgharrah had said, _You will only have your own mind to keep yourself sane, young warlock. Guilt will get you nowhere. It is a dangerous thing, that belongs to men – but now, you are more than that._

Merlin had glanced down at his feet. _I’m not like you, Kilgharrah. I can’t… distance myself from human matters as you do._

The look his friend had given him had been filled with a softness that Merlin hadn’t been expecting. _Pain is still fresh in your heart. But as you grow older, you shall understand. I know you will._

 _Older…_ Merlin had shivered. _I already feel too old for my years, Kilgharrah. How will it be in a few centuries, I wonder._

 _It might get worse. It might get better. But whatever you do, it_ will _happen. The way you will choose to apprehend those years, however, is your choice entirely. Your tale will never end, young warlock. All you can do is make it as bearable as you can._

Very often, over the years, Merlin had reminisced these instants with Kilgharrah, and he could recall feeling differently each time. Sometimes he’d feel guilty, terribly guilty, and persuade himself that all of that pain, he deserved. Other times, he would reflect on the dragon’s words, and think that, yes, he understood. He understood what Kilgharrah had said about the necessity to let it all go so as not so crumble at every step of the way. He even managed to follow the dragon’s advice at times – managed to behave like that immortal creature that Kilgharrah had depicted and seemingly seen in him, that immortal creature whose indifference never wavered. Of course, he never managed to keep the pretence for a whole century, but it was still something. He liked to think that it was like exercise: exercise of the soul, so as to _be_ Emrys.

And then there were the rare times when he got angry – really, really angry. What right had Kilgharrah to tell him to ignore his own feelings, after all that he’d been through, in order to serve yet another purpose, when he had so clearly failed to achieve the first one? What was the logic in that? What other great purpose did the gods have for him? And so anger filled his heart – anger on his own behalf, but also on that of all the souls that he had wronged. It was like the gods that men so eagerly prayed to enjoyed watching humans make their mistakes, again and again, and fall. Each. Single. Time. And sometimes, yes, all that Merlin wanted was to be selfish, plainly selfish, _just a little bit_. All he wanted was for destiny and gods and people and infuriating creatures of the Old Religion who had no clue what it was like to be in his skin to just _stop asking impossible things from him_ , to stop asking things in the first place! He was just so _sick_ of it all. Sick of being afraid to be selfish, afraid to get angry properly, because who knew what his magic might achieve in his fit of rage, huh? Sick, too, of being left to his own devices, lonely in the world, but, in parallel, told commands that he was expected to just blindly execute, like some sort of – puppet. A puppet that they drained, and drained, and drained, until there was no true will left to it. Unfortunately for them, this puppet still had a will of its own, a will to protect its friends, and Merlin prayed that it would be enough to counter any sort of prophecy that might get unleashed upon them and ask the impossible from him, again.

What would it be this time? To kill a druid boy? To bring a sorceress to her knees? A king to his throne? What would it _be_?

He was sick of being given commands, and even sicker of obeying, _every single time_. What right did _they_ have to leave him purposeless for years and years, just to, all of a sudden, ask him to be Emrys once more? And sometimes, just to spite them, whoever _them_ was, Merlin wanted to scream, _Here, look! Here’s your Emrys! Look at him! Still interested in him?_ Sometimes, he wanted, as deluded as the idea might seem, to tear himself to pieces and show them what the almighty Emrys was made of. Flesh. Blood. Bones. Just like the rest of them, only, for some reason, _he_ had to live forever, while they didn’t. Sometimes, he just wanted to fall, to really, really fall, and so show them how wrong they had been in their choice of a champion. He wanted them to see their favourite puppet tear itself to pieces before having achieved its unknown purpose. To show them that even some things, _they_ could not control.

Merlin had very few things that were still his own, very few parts of his soul that were still his to dispose of, and his guilt was one of them. He would not let anyone rid him of it in the same way that the promise of a prophecy had rid him of his sanity. He understood Kilgharrah’s words, but this was where he and the dragon differed: his guilt, and the pain it brought with it, was the only thing preventing him from making dreadful decisions again, and he would not part from it so easily. No one but himself had a say in what became of his guilt.

_No one._

“ _Guilty!_ ”

Almost all of them winced when they heard Gwaine’s voice echo inside the room, and they watched in suspicion as the knight, who had been half-leaning on Percival for the last hour or so, suddenly sat up straight with red cheeks and sparkling eyes – eyes that spoke of resolve and a bit of something else that Merlin didn’t like. His knuckles were white as he brought the tip of the beer bottle to his lips, taking a long gulp. Then Gwaine blinked, shook his head, before repeating, with no less amount of fervour, what he had already said once.

“Guilty!”

Percival groaned. “Heard you the first time.” He rubbed the backs of his hands against his tired eyes as he squinted, trying to grasp a glimpse of Gwaine’s expression, probably to know what to expect from him.

From where he was sitting on the floor, with his chin on the table and his eyes peering up at Gwaine curiously and quite warily as well, Merlin felt sympathetic.

“Merlin, did you hear me?”

The warlock jumped. “What?” Then, meeting Gwaine’s eye, he voiced his own grunt of complaint. “Yeah, I heard you,” he muttered.

He was about to redirect his eyes back towards the window, eager to go back to his quiet contemplations, when he felt his eyes land on Arthur’s figure, against his own will, and, oh, _why_ did he have to look like _this_? Really. Everything about him was… infuriatingly distracting.

Sat in the dark red armchair, Arthur was wearing a shirt of the same colour, albeit a little darker, a colour which contrasted both with the tanned gold of his skin and the soft sunlight in his hair. And to this gold and red was added the blue of his eyes, a blue from which Merlin struggled to look away. The expression on his face was rather serene, but it was fairly obvious that his mind was elsewhere. His lips were slightly parted, and when he drank from the bottle, Merlin found himself unable to look away. He looked – more than good. Akin to some sort of idle angel, head resting against the headboard and his entire body slumped against the armchair, seemingly relaxed, and vulnerable, and yet a little bit dangerous still. It was something in the way that he was slightly inebriated, and yet appeared to remain in control… to a certain extent, at least. His cheeks reddened more easily than unusual, and there was no denying the way that Merlin could feel his eyes linger on his face and body from time to time, although he suspected that Arthur was not really _looking_. He couldn’t deny the appeal brought by the idea of Arthur losing a _little_ bit of his usual countenance, though. And this current collision in the king’s appearance, this collision of apparent control and dangerous unpredictability, made Merlin anxious, and eager to _keep looking_. There was also something unexplainably distracting about the way that his fingers would keep drumming against the arm of the armchair, the gesture oddly hypnotising, at least to Merlin, and the way that his other hand, from time to time, would brush the fabric of his belt, searching for the spectre of Excalibur, perhaps. Sword or no sword, armour or no armour, crown or no crown, Merlin still remembered him as the knight and king that he had been, and as his eyes trailed over his arms and hands, he was reminded of what those were capable of. Reminded of the sight of Arthur on the battlefield, a twirling storm of gold, red and silver.

To say that he looked _good_ didn’t even begin to cover it.

When Arthur took another gulp of beer, Merlin’s eyes lingered on his lips for a few seconds before he realised it and urged himself to look away. Once again, he was struck by how simply Arthur was dressed: one shirt, that was not even fully buttoned, a pair of dark trousers, and a pair of grey socks. It could be just the two of them, in Arthur’s room; one among countless evenings that had been spent underneath the soft light of a few candles. It was odd to see Arthur look like that in a room full of knights. Although the clothes that he wore were unusual, as was the absence of a chainmail, their warm colours remained familiar, and Arthur still had his mother’s ring around his index; when Merlin’s eyes lingered there once more, he knew instantly that he was definitely doomed, because he could remember much too clearly those hands holding him close as they had earlier in the evening, could almost feel their print against his back and neck and face, and he found himself remembering how it had felt to be held so closely: safe. Loved, almost. So closely entangled to another being that no god could possibly hope to tear them apart. And he wished, oh, gods, he knew he should not, but he _wished_ that these hands would hold him again, and again, and again, until he forgot what it felt like to be on his own. Wished for these hands to hold him so closely that he no longer knew what loneliness felt like.

And so the realisation struck him: realisation that he would gladly throw himself into Arthur’s arms, whether he asked it of him or not, and would no doubt struggle to leave it at that. Not with Arthur’s eyes consuming him the way they were doing just now, and even less with his own desire that he struggled more and more to conceal.

He simply could not –

Merlin cursed internally as he forced himself to look away, cheeks flushing furiously. How long had Arthur been staring back at him? Not long, he hoped.

He felt utterly ridiculous.

“Merlin…”

Merlin started when he heard Gwaine’s voice so close, and when he looked to his right, he saw the knight sitting on the floor next to him, worried eyes searching for his own.

“Merlin, I just realised – “ He ran a tired hand over his face, taking deep breaths, and then spoke again, “ – I just realised, Merlin…” He tried to reach for Merlin’s hands, and the warlock let him. “If we’re a fairy tale – “

“Gwaine,” he automatically cut him with a tired sigh, “if that’s about what I said earlier – “

“Nah. Nah, but Merlin, you were right.” Merlin had seldom heard the knight sound so distressed before, distressed and yet also determined, and he did not know what to make of it. “You were right, Merlin. Our story may be that of a fairy tale in some aspects, but then, if it is, then, please, tell me, who _are_ we? What side are we on?”

And the answer would have been simple, after all: all Merlin had to say was, _Search for our legend on the Internet, and you’ll find all the answers that you seek; search for the legend of King Arthur and his knights, and you’ll find tales, thousands of tales, depicting you an impeccable, neat painting with King Arthur and the whole of Camelot on one side, and the witch Morgana on the other. It’s simple!_

But he couldn’t get the words to leave his mouth. He did not _want_ to say them.

“What if _we_ ’re the bad ones, Merlin?”

Merlin’s entire body tensed.

And he looked away.

Directed an almost envious gaze out of the window, thinking that he wouldn’t mind a peace similar to the one the trees had outside.

_I wish I were a snowflake._

“The things that we did, Merlin – “

_An infinitesimal snowflake, just one speckle of white – one amongst thousands._

“The things that we’ve allowed to happen – “

_To dive in that great ocean of white – can snowflakes drown, I wonder?_

“We’re the guiltiest of them all – “

_Does insignificance make one feel less lonely?_

“We – we _broke_ you, didn’t we? This was us. This was our doing.”

_So tiny, so small, so tiny, so small –_

So _broken_.

 _We are more than that, you and I. Creatures of the Old Religion. We won’t let it break us_ , snarled Kilgharrah in a corner of his mind.

 _What if I want to drown, though?_ a small warlock daringly answered back. _What if I want to fall? What if I’m sick of standing all the time?_

“How many other men, women and children did we break?”

“For the last time, Gwaine, I AM _NOT_ BROKEN! I AM FINE!”

Apart from a gasp of surprise, no voice spoke, and it took the warlock approximately half a second to realise that he had been the one to speak – or rather, to cry out loud.

He kept his eyes firmly anchored on his hands which, he noticed, were no longer being held by Gwaine. He did not blame the knight; he had seen him drunk in the past, and knew that the subtility he lacked now, he would make up for with clumsy, heartfelt apologies come morning.

He did not blame Gwaine, but he could not speak of these things. He _could_ not. It would rouse the guilt within him, and he could not do that in the presence of his friends. He would not _break_ in front of them – not when he knew the things that his magic was capable of when his nerves wracked.

He tried to think about snowflakes, and not about Lancelot’s hand, that had just now reached for his, and was trying to provide silent support.

Until the support no longer was a silent one.

“Merlin,” the knight said, soothingly, as though he were an injured small thing that one must treat in a special way, lest he break. When would the knights understand that he was no glass? He was no small thing, and his magic, when he broke, could prove itself as deadly as broken glass on a man’s skin. _They don’t seem to realise what I’ve done in order to survive. Is a small thing all they see when they look at me?_ “Merlin, Gwaine lacks delicacy in his words, but surely you must see that he speaks truly… delaying this conversation won’t do us much good.”

Merlin kept looking at the hands; he had no desire to see their faces, because then he would have to look at their eyes, and he did not want to see any pity in them, let alone any guilt.

“Not tonight,” he mumbled at Lancelot’s address, wishing that the knight would listen and leave it alone, for once since his return. He had been great at keeping Merlin’s secret back in Camelot, great at keeping silent and not asking Merlin any unpleasant questions, great at just letting Merlin _handle it_ , as he knew he could. What had changed now? Why such persistence, not only from him, but from all others? _Why are you all waking up just now?_

“At some point, then,” the knight gently said. “But you must. _We_ must. If we’re to ever get over it – to ever make our peace.”

And back was Kilgharrah’s voice, saying, _to let go. To accept that things were as they were, and that now, they are over._

“This can’t go on forever,” another knight assented, a bit more firmly. Elyan.

 _Guilt will get you nowhere_ , teased Kilgharrah.

“We – we need our closure. Each of us here. We need it.”

 _Your tale will never end_ , taunted the dragon. There would be no closure for Merlin, that much was certain.

Lancelot’s hands moved onto Merlin’s shoulders, and he tightened his hold. “You’ve a right to be heard, Merlin. After all that’s happened to you, you, of all people, are entitled to speak your mind.”

“To speak my mind?”

“Yes. About – about what’s happened, about all the wrong that we’ve caused you.”

“The wrong that _you_ ’ve caused _me_?”

The knight sounded upset, and impatient. He could hear Gwen’s voice behind him, although he could not tell what she was saying. “Yes,” Lancelot said, “yes, you – you were _persecuted_ , Merlin, persecuted, and you’ve a right to speak out. In your own time, of course – but you’ve a right to it.”

And Merlin burst into laughter. “ _I_ was persecuted?”

Was this one of his dreams?

But Lancelot, instead of vanishing as he always did in his dreams, seemed to nod with conviction, insisting that Merlin had been persecuted, as though the warlock hadn’t been standing alongside them all, watching wordlessly as his kin was ruthlessly being slaughtered.

He stopped himself right away, ordering his guilt to cower back inside. _I’ll see you tonight_ , he told her.

“You were,” Lancelot was saying at the same time.

He heard one of the knights click his tongue impatiently in the background, and then Elyan was speaking again. “We see you, you know. We see that you’re not alright. And it’s obvious, you know, that this, that this is the problem. What we did to you. So tell us. Let go of this – of whatever it is that’s holding you back from achieving happiness and peace, be it fear, or anger, or grief, just – just tell us.”

He snorted. “That simple, yeah?”

“Simpler than to say nothing! Saying _nothing_ never makes things better – “

“But saying things also often only serves to make them worse!” Merlin snapped back. “I’m sorry, but I won’t speak of it. I don’t want to.”

“Then what are you going to do? Remain in your current misery? Because we _do_ see you!”

“Well, you don’t have to watch!”

“Why – why are you doing this? I don’t get it. It’s like you enjoy it, like you – thrive in this self-deprecation that you’re so deeply stuck into! And why, why would you, when _we_ ’re the guilty party here?”

What Merlin heard was, _when you’re being given the easy part._ He flinched.

“ _Enough!_ ” shouted suddenly somebody, and it was not Merlin this time. “Stop _touching_ him, just let us – Merlin, would you come with me?”

Docilely, Merlin followed him out of the room, until he felt a piece of wall press against his back and finally dared to look up, instantly meeting the blue of Arthur’s eyes. Arthur’s worried eyes.

He thought he heard him sigh a small sigh of relief when Merlin’s eyes met his.

“You alright?”

As soon as the words were pronounced, Merlin saw his face contort in an expression of pain and perhaps even silent admonishment, and so he quickly answered that he was indeed alright.

“Don’t worry,” he added, even trying to crack a smile. He hoped that the knights would see him smile as well and decide to leave it.

“You sure?”

Merlin sighed. “Yes, Arthur, I am sure.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, clearly nervous. “I don’t think Elyan meant what he – “

“I think he meant it,” Merlin cut him, forcing a nonchalant grin onto his lips, “he just didn’t mean to phrase it that way.”

_If I can show them how little the subject matters to me, then perhaps they’ll finally drop it. Perhaps they’ll stop seeing me as a broken little thing in need of mending._

Did Arthur see him that way, too? One thing was certain, he was not yet done worrying: quick hands running through his own hair furiously and breathing at an unnatural quick pace, he was upset, for reasons that Merlin failed to fathom.

“Why are you so upset?” he asked, unable to help it, overwhelmed that he was with a desire, no, a need to _know_.

The laugh that Arthur released then was _anything but_ happy. Once again, Merlin found that he was at a loss for words. “ _You_ ’re asking me that?”

The more Arthur’s traits twisted in bitterness and frustration, and the more desperate Merlin felt; desperate to know, to understand, and to find a way to ease Arthur’s pain.

“Who – who else would I ask?” Merlin said, frowning.

Was Arthur upset because of Gwaine’s mention of Camelot and of all the things they were guilty of? Had Lancelot’s words about persecution upset him? Either way, there was no sign of the earlier idleness in Arthur’s stance, since he was now standing, seemingly alert, looking like he was ready to bolt at any time. He hadn’t drunk a lot, that much Merlin could tell, and the swiftness of each of his gestures told Merlin that he had not lost his reflexes, but there was also an impulse to his tongue, words that were brashly spoken and emotions that were less efficiently contained, and although he was trying to be patient, an air of restlessness seemed to be slowly growing within him, threatening to shake the calm composure he had tried to maintain so far.

Merlin could see that his answers only served to exasperate Arthur more. He could tell that the “Yeah. Yeah,” that Arthur replied as he exhaled several huffs of air would soon give way to much less tactful words.

Quickly, Merlin found himself become quite restless as well, having less and less patience for Arthur’s evasiveness. Why was he being so secretive all of a sudden? Earlier, it had seemed that he had been alright with Merlin’s magic, even watching him glow with something akin to open wonder in his eyes, and now…. now, he was closing himself all over again. Closing himself, as he had done for some unknown reason when they’d talked in the bathroom. Merlin didn’t like that he was shutting himself so. Why wouldn’t Arthur speak to him about it when, in the past, he used to? Did he think that Merlin could not see that he was not alright? That he could not see the restlessness in his eyes, the edginess, the disquiet?

He _had_ to let him help him; he had to!

“You can tell me,” he said, hating how desperate his own voice sounded. He reached for Arthur’s hands gently, and looked up at him, trying to catch his eye. _I want to see these eyes smile at me again. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it._ “Whatever it is that’s bothering you… you can tell me. I swear I’ll listen.” _I swear I swear I swear._

He did not know what sort of reaction he had been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been the one that Arthur displayed: yet another bitter laugh.

“You’ll listen?” Merlin did not like his tone, nor the thin smirk that brushed the king’s lips, but he forced himself to give a short nod. “He’ll listen…” Arthur raised his eyes to heaven, and that was the last straw for Merlin.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

The furious gleam that flashed in Arthur’s eyes made Merlin regret having spoken at all. He had seen anger twist Arthur’s tongue in the past, making it wield words of malice as easily as he did a sword, and he had no desire to face those words now. But would have to, and so he could just as well get it over with.

“Tell me!” the warlock insisted, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible, so that he could quickly forget the words that were to come.

But, as it occurred, there was no true malice in Arthur’s tone, nor in his words: merely anger. Genuine, untamed anger, that had not been shaped cruelly by the drink, but rather released in its natural shape.

“ _Really?_ And _how_ , pray tell, am I to tell you anything, let alone lay my heart bare for you, when the man asking this of me is a man who insists on lying to me, again and again and again – ”

“It didn’t seem to stop you all of those years ago!” Merlin cried back before he could even register what he was saying.

For a while, none of them said anything, but Arthur’s face, the way that it contorted in _pain_ – his expression was answer enough, and an answer that Merlin would have preferred not to hear.

When Arthur spoke again, his tone was different. Defeated, perhaps. “You resent me for it, don’t you?” Merlin had the disagreeable sensation that all he was doing was voicing thoughts that he had been harbouring for too long a time. _Don’t_ , he thought. As though in answer, Arthur scoffed lowly. “What am I saying, of course you do. You resent me for never noticing the sacrifices you made on my behalf, for being so – so blind, and for never noticing how bad you truly were.”

Mind suddenly blank, Merlin could only shake his head. “Don’t be silly,” he weakly said.

“Is that all I was to you, then? One troublesome _burden_ that kept going in the way? A burden that was a little too talkative, a burden, whose vain complaints you were forced to listen to, day and night? Oh, how you must’ve despised him!”

Hearing Arthur’s words, Merlin felt his cheeks flush in anger. How _dare_ Arthur question his affections for him, how dare he? At this stage of their friendship, he would have thought that a thing as clear as his devotion for Arthur would have been plainly established between them, for years! It seemed that he had been wrong.

“D’you really think I’d have done all that if that’s what I thought of you?” Merlin snapped back, finding it unbearable to hear Arthur say such things.

Did he hold himself in such low esteem? Hold their _friendship_ in such low esteem?

Arthur did not relent, as he had been expecting – hoping? – him to. On the contrary, Merlin’s words only served to cause the anger to surge back into his tone, and he shouted his next words.

“Well, I don’t know, _Mer_ lin – “

Merlin flinched.

“ – because you won’t tell me a bloody thing! Therefore, I have no bloody clue!”

Merlin had seen Arthur be angry enough times in the past to know that when he rose his voice, it was to conceal the way that he was hurting.

Earlier, he had feared the malice that might manipulate Arthur’s words, for he knew that the king could be cruel in his words, but nothing, he believed, could have hurt him more than the defeated tone he heard Arthur use next.

“I thought we were done lying to each other in this new, this new _chance_ that we have. Thought we were done with this, this lopsided relation of ours. But I guess I was wrong.” A sad smile stretched on his lips, a smile that broke Merlin’s heart once more. “Again.”

Before Merlin could think of an answer, Arthur had already stormed off, leaving the warlock alone in the corridor, alone and trying to understand why it felt like Arthur had just given up on him and why, why on Earth, it hurt so bloody much.

 _It’s a good thing_ , he tried to tell himself. _It’s for the best._

But why had Arthur lost his patience so? What had he done wrong? He had a feeling that the words Arthur had said now, he might just as easily have said earlier in the bathroom, had perhaps even been ready to say them, and he found himself utterly perplexed by it all. What had he done wrong? How – how had he managed to ruin things this time? Each time, he could see the anger take hold of Arthur’s heart, see it spread and spread and spread, but he could never tell where it came from. Could never tell what he did wrong. All he had wanted was to make Arthur feel better. His intentions had been fair.

_All I wanted was to help. How did I ruin this?_

He felt powerless, unable to figure out why Arthur would choose to close himself so.

As he felt his feet slowly redirect him to the living room, he felt oddly empty. He knew that he ought to feel relieved that Arthur had finally given up, but all he felt at this instant was a nerve-wracking numbness that rendered him slow and dizzy. _It’s all for the best, no matter how wrong it feels. All for the best. All for the best. All for the –_

“But doesn’t he _owe_ them to remember that?”

_Owe. Owe. Owe._

The word made something within him shift, and he stopped in his movements, his magic reaching for the adjacent room with no command of his, amplifying the volume of the voices so that Merlin could hear them clearly. His magic knew him well. But then, it always had/

_Owe. Owe. Owe._

The warlock could remember feeling, on countless occasions, that he, indeed, owed many people a great number of things. Could remember many nights that he’d spent confessing truths to the paper, trying to speak in the name of all those who had fallen before him. Could remember lending a helping hand to those he had seen break, hoping to give them a chance to join the right path, if a right path there was, or, at the very least, the path that was approved of by moral standards, if only to avoid them the anguish of carrying a guilty heart. He’d tried to atone for his sins. Tried to make a difference, even if it would only be in his small corner on Earth. He’d tried to give back to this world what he owed it; had tried and tried and tried, but it had never seemed to make a difference. Never seemed to be enough, for his guilt, that ugly beast whose hunger seemed insatiable, was never content. It always demanded more… and Merlin always gave it.

It wasn’t always like that: in the heart of action, Merlin’s guilt would be clever enough to keep quiet, so as to allow his experiences solely to determine his choices, and so the warlock found that he could make sense of the dragon’s words to him: cold-facted memories truly were a bliss in the face of danger, providing Merlin with a knowledge and a sense of caution that he would never have acquired otherwise. How many times had he remembered Morgana’s schemes, or Arthur’s war plans, or even Agravaine’s misleading smiles and traitorous words, when he had been faced with matters that he, as a young warlock with scarcely any experience, would have been utterly unable to solve? He needed his memories, and, provided he had a purpose, could focus his attention on that purpose only.

But his guilt was a stubborn thing. His guilt was a sleeping beast that woke up every now and then, picking the calmest hours to rise again and haunt Merlin’s heart. It was like an old wound that would hurt again from to time. And, once more, Kilgharrah had been right: guilt truly could drive a man mad. Guilt grew heavier and heavier as the years went, and guilt _stung_. If one didn’t rid themselves from it early enough, then the wound would fester, and never mend entirely. Kilgharrah had once said that guilt was a thing that belonged to men, something that he and Merlin were apparently above, but, the way that Merlin saw it, _he_ was bathed in it, up to the shoulders. And sometimes, the lever would rise, immerse Merlin’s face entirely, and the warlock would drown. He wasn’t above anything. He was in the middle of it.

The only ting that he was capable of was to press a pause button, to pass some sort of truce with this creature within him, just so long as the crisis lasted, just so long as the purpose was overwhelming enough to occupy his entire mind. And then, only then, would the wound begin to bleed again.

Things were so.

Kilgharrah had been wrong about another thing, too. Merlin didn’t _keep_ from destroying this world to which he owed so many apologies out of some sense of wisdom that would’ve been fed by years of experience; his was a much more selfish motive: guilt. A crushing sense of responsibility that extended to all those around him, because he _knew_ that, should he ever fail any of them again, then he would have to live with overwhelming guilt afterwards. His guilt was what motivated it all, not his wisdom, not his status as Emrys! His _guilt_.

And he _needed_ that guilt, for it was the only thing that ensured that he remained mistrustful of himself, wary of his abilities, aware of the danger he represented for all those around him. Guilt was a moderator within his very being, the only moderator that would ever be enough. How could he even consider to part from it?

Hearing the word coming from Leon’s lips, though, _doesn’t he owe them to remember that?_ , stirred anger, hot, burning anger, deep within his core. Merlin felt inexplicably tense.

“He _needs_ his closure – “

And there was that damned word again! _Closure._ What did they mean by it? Did they not know how utterly incompatible the word was with Merlin’s whole being? Merlin was a mess made of _maybes_ and _almosts_ , an ensemble of mismatched pieces, mismatched moments that had never had a proper ending. He was incomplete, probably more aware than any other man of how little sense a man’s existence conveyed, of how incomplete a man’s life was. Non-achievement was probably one of the things that men disliked most, and yet also one of the things that they were best acquainted with. Men did hate to be idle. The knights, too. But to speak of _Merlin_ ’s closure?

 _Their closure, not yours_ , the anger whispered softly, and his magic whistled in return, filling the very room with its essence. It was not a very friendly essence, but Merlin didn’t have the will to order it back inwards. Some part of him, too, found a bit of satisfaction in the idea of the knights feeling his magic invading the air, and understanding that some parts of Merlin would forever remain out of their grip, no matter how much they might wish it otherwise. He did not like their habit of making complex things sound simpler than they were. Especially when it came to things that they knew nothing about, nothing at all.

“Believe me,” came Gwaine’s voice, sounding more sober than earlier and perhaps the tiniest bit regretful, “ _I_ know our little Merlin, and it won’t do to harass him so. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, then he won’t talk about it, simple as that. You, my friends, are not having the right strategy _at all_.”

It was Gwaine’s tone that did it, he thought.

The slight recklessness in it, the way it sufficed itself, as though he knew Merlin’s reactions by heart. As though he were planning some sort of strategy to change his mind, some supposedly clever scheme to get him to admit the truth. And he hated that – hated that the knights were still discussing this, still trying to find a way to extricate the truth from him… as if they _cared_.

Which obviously, they did not.

 _If Arthur has given up on me, then so will they – so_ must _they. If Arthur won’t fight for me, then why would they? Nothing is genuine in their words. Not even in Gwaine’s._

Already Merlin was in the living room, blinding streams of anger roaring inside his heart, and the knights’ guilty gazes that welcomed him there only seemed to make his anger stronger.

When he spoke, his tone was sharp and unflinching.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Pretending to care? Did you just realise how much you’d fucked things up back in Camelot, and found that now, you wanted your redemption? Is it that you’re ashamed? You, Lancelot – d’you wish you’d done more for me, is that it? And you – “ He turned to the knights, whom he saw flinch “ – are you ashamed? Of how dutifully you achieved your knights’ duties, perhaps? The _best knights of Camelot_ … d’you see me as your charity case, is that it? To make up for all the persecution that you so confidently speak of – but aren’t you all a little late for that? Eh?”

Percival spluttered. His cheeks were red. “A-all we meant was to – “

“Find closure,” Merlin completed, “yeah, I got that. You need your closure. I get it.”

_Their closure, not yours._

And that’s when it struck him. The whole of it.

How could he fail to think of it earlier? This wasn’t about Merlin, no; it was much simpler than that. They wanted something very specific from him, something that only he had the power to give.

Now, finally, things were getting clearer. Target. Motive. Weapon. These, at least, were things that Merlin was familiar with.

A dangerous smile stretched over the warlock’s lips, who felt an odd sense of triumph, because now, finally, he _got_ it. Human beings were very simple beings, when it came down to it. With very basic desires, and even more basic methods to achieve those desires. The knights were no exception to the rule, it seemed.

“Oh, I see.”

The relief was almost as overwhelming as the sudden wave of loneliness that hit him. _They thought they could toy with me._

“Merlin…”

“Nah, I get it.” It was funny, really. When one thought about it. “I get it. Some of you died before you had a chance to atone, or anything, and so you think that speaking to me will help. You’re feeling miserable and you feel that you can’t handle a little bit of guilt.” He chuckled, thanking the stars that they could not see the contents of his own soul. “Let me tell you one thing, though. The guilt _will_ stay. A fistful of meek apologies won’t make it disappear, you know.”

Elyan stiffened. “We only meant to – “

“ _No!_ ” Merlin snapped. The words were leaving his mouth before he could even consider stopping them, and, to be honest, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to stop them. “No. This is just you lot, seeing an opportunity, because you’re feeling guilty about the persecution, rightly so, may I say, and you would like me to accept whatever apology you have prepared for me and my kind, to exempt you from all fault, only, what you don’t get is, I’m just as guilty as you all, if not more!”

_Please, do not come to me for redemption. I am the last person in the world that you should come to._

His magic drowned the plea in brief hissing sounds.

“Alright.” Merlin finally raised his hands in defeat, feeling his magic growing more and more undisciplined, and willing the knights to leave the room as soon as possible. The wisest course of action now seemed to be to give them what they wanted, and have them leave once they got it. That was what men did, after all. Let Merlin solve their problem so they could put as much distance between them and Merlin’s magic, that was currently very angry with them. “Alright. Find your closure. Just – tell me what you would have me say, and I’ll say it.”

 _Let me be an instrument of your redemption._ Everybody else ended up using him at some point. He had been a fool to expect otherwise from his _friends_.

The lack of an answer from them irritated him. _Why are they being so slow?_

“Tell me what you want me to say,” he insisted, his magic whistling louder and louder around him, “and I’ll repeat it, yeah? Tell me. What would you have me say? That I forgive you for keeping your eyes shut, Leon? That I forgive you for leaving me, Lancelot? That I forgive you all for burning my kind and bloody _preaching_ about it? Alright. Alright. I’ll forgive you, forgive you all of it. Just _tell me what you want me to say, and I’ll say it_!”

A wind had begun to rise in the living room, and it was growing as the seconds went.

“TELL ME!” he cried. _I have no power over that wind_ , he realised. The knights were still immobile, infuriatingly immobile, and so he said, “Get out.” When they did not move, he said more firmly, allowing a hint of his Dragonlord’s voice to slide into his tone, “I would like you all to leave me be. Now, GET OUT!”

When finally the knights were gone, Merlin having firmly avoided their gazes, finding that he could not stand to see the fear that would no doubt be dancing in their eyes, the warlock allowed himself to slide to his knees and bury his face in the crook of his arms.

 _Your magic is a mirror of your soul_ , a voice whispered inside his head – Kilgharrah, Balinor, somebody else? He had met so many people that the voices inside his head did not always have names, although they always had memories and feelings attached to them. Right now, the feeling was that of temperance and control. The voice sounded like a command coming from a person of trust. The type of advice that you remembered from having heard it in the mouth of one of your favourite instructors. He listened to the voice. _If your soul is agitated, then your magic shall be restless, too_.

Merlin forced himself to take deep breaths, although they were shallow at first. _I am alright_ , he told his magic. _I am alright. I am alright. I am alright._

Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he let them. He imagined the brush of his mother’s hands on these cheeks, welcoming the tears, whispering, _hush, my child. You cry now. It will get better._ He could recall always believing her when she said that, for some reason. Perhaps it was thanks to the conviction that she put in those words, with a tone that was warm and loving and also unflinching. He wished he had someone to tell him such words now, and someone whom he would believe. Things being as they were, he settled for his mother’s memory, and tried to let it surround him, beckoning his magic for help. _Help me rebuild the memory of my mother instead of waging a storm in my own house._ The more his magic joined in, and the more relaxed Merlin felt. The more relaxed Merlin felt, and the less aggressive his magic got, and soon enough, there was no more wind in the living room, merely a soft breeze that carried with it the scent of Ealdor and of a mother’s touch.

 _Mother,_ he thought _, this – losing control like this… this hasn’t happened in ages. Ma, I’m terrified._

He waited for the whispers of comfort, the words that said that things would get better soon, they would, as they always did, but there came none. Instead, there was only the breeze, and even the breeze faded after a while.

.

Going to sleep terrified was never a good idea, and yet that’s precisely what Merlin did.

In his dreams, Merlin saw many people that night. It began, as it always did, with Kilgharrah, who had been very present in his thoughts as of late. Quite predictably, the dragon accused him of failing his destiny.

 _I’m not like you,_ Merlin shouted in his dream, chin up – again, his dreams often began like that: with a warlock full of assurance, as he often was in the old days when he would address the old dragon with apparent resolve. Resolve that he would never harm Mordred. Resolve that he and Morgana were the same, and that he would prove it. Resolve that he and Arthur would build a beautiful Albion, one day. The resolve always crumbled after a while, and soon enough, the warlock could be gazing down at his knees, ashamed. But for now, he was young and ambitious and naïve. _I can’t… be like you. I try to be, but I can’t._

The dragon huffed, unusually nonchalant when was stirred the matter of Merlin’s destiny. _You were never up to the task, anyway. All you were was yet another candid boy, and now, all you are is yet another broken old man. There was never anything special about you. We saw distinction when there was only credulity. I have myself to blame for that._

 _You could have saved me, Merlin_ , said a young Morgana, softly.

Echoes of _‘me too’s_ followed Morgana’s words, echoes that came from more than a thousand lips. Wails from broken souls that had no other place to express themselves than inside Merlin’s dreams.

 _Do you remember our faces?_ a girl asked. She was wearing a tunic from the time of Camelot. Then an identical girl appeared and asked the same thing – _do you remember our faces?_ –, identical, save for the clothes she was wearing. A couple of centuries later. Then yet another, _do you remember our faces?_

 _I don’t_. _I’m sorry, but I don’t!_

The girl – girls? – had a scary smile. _That’s because we have none._

By the time Merlin was looking up, the girls were gone. He turned and turned, trying to remember the poor girl’s face, the poor girls’ faces, but the only face that came to his mind was his own. It was an upsetting thing to see himself, especially in a dream.

 _Why do you keep yourself in that guilt?_ It was Elyan’s voice, but also Kilgharrah’s, and also Merlin’s own. _It’s like you enjoy it. Like you enjoy it. Like you enjoy it._

 _It’s because I deserve it!_ Merlin snarled back.

Arthur glanced up from his armchair, where he’d been sat. He was frowning. _But then, so do I._ Merlin waved him off with an irritated gesture of the hand, mumbling, _Not now_.

 _Believe me,_ Gwaine said in an almost chanting tone, _I know our little Emrys._

 _No, you don’t!_ Merlin buried his face into his hands. _Nobody does!_

 _I do._ Gwen’s hand was on his knee. Looking up, teary-eyed, Merlin shook his head sadly. _Not even you._ Gwen disappeared.

 _Why do you deserve it?_ Lancelot calmly asked. Merlin spluttered. _Because I can’t… I can’t… I can’t remember the faces._ The knight sighed. _What faces?_ Merlin murmured, _Of all the people that were burnt – of all the people that_ I _burnt – that I allowed to be burnt. And all the people that I might burn._

 _Don’t be silly,_ said Balinor, _you’re not going to burn anyone. That’s what your guilt is here for. To keep it all locked in –_ he pointed at Merlin’s head, then heart – _in here._ A mad idea surged in Merlin’s mind. _But what if – what if I’m terribly tired of it? Tired of everything I do always impacting others? What if I let myself break, just – just once? What if I tell them – what if I tell Arthur? Maybe – maybe he’ll understand, then. Maybe he’ll even catch me._

 _Catch you?_ Balinor laughed. _How could he? Your powers alone would crush him entirely. No, Merlin. There’s no one there to catch you, and if you think that_ they _’re ready to welcome you, ready to accept you, well, then you’re utterly wrong. Take responsibility. This is your world of residence. Be a warrior: protect it. Even from yourself, if need be. And right now, you seem to be the biggest threat for it._

An old warlock woke up with a start, wide blue eyes opening in a hurry. He jumped out of bed, opened the window, and ran outside.

“Warrior, warrior, warrior,” he murmured, kneeling on the ground, facing the lake now. “Warrior… warrior… warrior…”

But the reflection he saw in the water spoke not of a warrior. All he saw in the pitch-black water was a boy, a very small boy, who had been afraid of his own shadow for far too long.

The boy pressed his hands to his eyes, and wept, reminiscing a time when a fiery-eyed warlock would run into the woods, dreaming of being a warrior. Had he once been a warrior, before turning into this pitiful creature, or had he been a boy all along, a boy who had seen too much of tragedies to the point that he'd mistaken his grief for a warrior’s experience? He could no longer tell.

Once more, he tried to remember the girls’ faces. To no avail. _Did they ever exist, or were they a pure product of my imagination, just like that warrior I always figured myself to be?_ This was yet another question to which Merlin would no doubt never know the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> I hope you're well.  
> I... did not intend for this chapter to go like that. I mean, I did, but I was planning to go a bit further, especially on the immortality reveal to come, which was sort of overlooked in this chapter. I feel like not much has happened in it... I hope you didn't mind. I just had these ideas regarding the whole topic of guilt, and then drama happened x) This was rather a chapter about relationships and guilt and morality, I guess. To me, at least. And a bit insight on what is to come in the next chapter with the small warrior bit. I feel like I used way too much italics :') I just really love flashbacks and dreams and all that!  
> I sort of scared myself writing the last dream scene x) I don't know why, but the "faceless girls" idea really scared me (although they are said to be smirking, so really, it's quite plausible that my brain stopped working tonight and that what I find nice right now I will be totally ashamed of tomorrow). But I really wanted to post as early as possible (well, I hadn't posted in 2 weeks, I think, so this is not necessarily what one would call early), so here it is. It took me quite a lot of time because I spend soooo much time on the draft, trying to order around all the quotes and ideas that I've got, and I was intending on using a lot of things that I'd writen earlier in this chapter, but, in the end, I wrote a lot of new stuff, so, yeah. I hope it was nice to read and I'd be really happy to hear about your opinion about the chapter, and the characters, or anything else :) I really hope you liked it and that I didn't try to go too deep into Merlin's head, at times I sort of lost myself so yeah, I hope it still makes sense. I really hope it makes sense haha.  
> Thank you so much for the support in the previous chapters, and thank you for still being here reading ^^ 
> 
> hope you have a great night/day!


	6. Little warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> I hope you're well :)  
> And if you're still here, thank you so much. Your feedback, whether it was comments or kudos, really meant the world, and it really was a source of encouragement (even though I know it doesn't necessarily seem like it given how long it took me to post... But this was just because of my bad organisation and generally my slow writing :') )!  
> About that, I'm really really sorry; I tried to make up for it with a slightly longer chapter than usual and hopefully something enjoyable to read, with some DRAMA :))) I hope you like what you read and again, thank you so much for your support. <3
> 
> alsoooo, as a quick reminder of what happened in the previous chapter if you need it: well, to put it briefly, there was some sort of big fight between Merlin and basically everyone ahaha, because everyone was a bit / very fed up with all the secrets he kept, and the knights really wanted to speak of what Merlin and people with magic in general endured in Camelot... Merlin, however, didn't share their wish, and he ended up losing his cool, giving us a foretaste of what his powers can be like when he no longer controls them. The chapter ends with him having a bad dream and running to the forest and just not feeling well at all. Lmao this is really a shitty summary, I'm really tired haha, I'll probably try to rephrase it later. But basically yeah that's what happened. :) 
> 
> I'd like to say that it gets better in here but... it doesn't.  
> But I'm really happy because I managed to use a lot of quotes/passages I had thought of, so my draft is a lot less messy, and finally, we're getting to the heart of the subject! Which means even more drama ahaha. I love it.  
> For the chapter's title, I was hesitating between 'little warrior' and 'broken warrior', but I guess 'little' is a little less pessimistic ahaha. Besides, it will get better. At some point. Soon. I think.
> 
>   
> /!\  
> ALSO !!  
> There are mentions of children soldiers. Not very detailed, but there are descriptions and the idea is clearly enunciated. If you'd prefer not to read that, which I'd perfectly understand, you may want to skip the beginning of the chapter. (the first 'section'.)  
> The descriptions are from Merlin's perspective. It's really about Merlin's vision of war - which is not a very glorious one.  
> And the whole chapter is filled with réflexions from Merlin about warriors and war and the loss of his loved ones. Grief is really present.  
> 
> 
> Finally, I'm sorry if there are some mistakes/clumsy passages, especially in the end of the chapter... I finished writing it just tonight but really wanted to post it as soon as I could, so here it comes ^^ I hope it doesn't feel too rushed, and that, if it does, the scene isn't too ruined by it. :') I might add some modifications later if I read it again and realise that some passages in hindsight should be completed with more details.  
> Anyway :D I really hope you enjoy it, and wish you a great night/day!

Over the centuries, countless had been the boys that Merlin had seen being sent to war. The one thing that struck him most was how small they looked in their too wide uniform, contradictorily so with the gigantic dark masses of armies that one could later see gathered on the battlefields, little grey heads, blinding in that the iron reflected the daylight, provided that the battle took place during the day, and that the warriors were provided with helmets.

Too few had been the men who Merlin had seen leave properly equipped, and too numerous those who he had seen wearing clothes that barely fit them and were made of more worn fabric than protective material.

Kilgharrah hadn’t seen fit to give Merlin a helmet when he had sent him into a war that had been much bigger than the sixteen-year-old warlock that he’d been when he’d first met him – hadn’t even seen fit to tell him that he would be walking into a war, in truth. A war that would last years and years, not only between Arthur’s Camelot and countless foes who would seek to destroy it, but also, and foremost, including Merlin as the main actor of it. He had been at war with a kingdom that would separate his head from his body were it to learn of his traitorous nature, at war with enemies of Camelot who could have been allies of his in another life, at war with forces bigger than he could possibly envision that carried with them the tunes of uncompromising prophesies, and at war with himself; with the servant boy who owed Camelot and her rulers his unconditional allegiance, with the man who loved Arthur more than anything, with the Emrys who was meant to bring magic back to the land, and with the Merlin he had once fancied himself becoming, good and free, back in Ealdor. When the gods had called him Emrys and bestowed a double duty over his head – to serve the Once and Future King, _and_ to guard his kin –, they had precipitated him into a war that he had been losing every step of the way, for Emrys, in itself, was a conflicting role that could only tear Merlin apart. His personal feelings and sins adding to the equation only made matters worse, as did his stubborn desire to shift prophecies that could not be shifted.

Merlin had never truly been at peace during his years in Camelot: he may at first merely have been at war with the kingdom to whom, by his very presence, he was made an enemy, but as the years had gone by, he had grown to be at war with many other entities – including himself. War was a nasty business, in which it was often quite tricky to tell who ought to win it and who ought to lose. Merlin hadn’t won any of these wars; he had merely waited for the storms to pass, and had, in the end, outlived them all. It did not stop their echo from raging inside his head from time to time, as a distant hum from a distant time whose unfinished melody he could never seem to forget entirely.

Most of Merlin’s wars had been waged in silence, in the dark, and for those few that he had ‘won’ – he did not believe in winning and losing any longer –, the credit had been granted to others, more fitting to the role of the victor. And so Merlin had lived on.

But that was rather the point, wasn’t it? _He had lived on._ Victorious warriors were either supposed to die heroically on the battlefield, or to die peacefully of old age or remnants of an injury, having known the glory of being cheered by their people. And Merlin couldn’t seem to do either of those things; therefore, how could he call himself a warrior, and so compare himself to all those who had died during or after accomplishing their duty, when he had himself done so little of what was required from a warrior? He was not a warrior, and that was it.

He had seen many warriors, many little grey heads that had sheltered great bravery, walk to war and _fall_. And he had heard many men send these children to war, with words that both repelled and fascinated him.

He could imitate them in his head by pulling tiny bits of sentences from fragments of memories and making a tirade out of them.

 _Go on, little warrior_ , they’d say. _Grab your chainmail, put on your boots, take that sword. Take it, whether you know how to use it or not. Just take it! It’ll scarcely make a difference anyway – half of us won’t make it back, you know. Come on, soldier on. Chin up, if you please. There… nice. Frown your brows just a little, not too much, they mustn’t think you’re fighting back tears – good. You mustn’t let them see that you’re scared, alright? Here’s a little secret: they’re just as scared as you, boy. So you must do your best to look scary, yeah? Wouldn’t want to disappoint their expectations. They claim we’re monsters, did ye know that? So bloody_ be _one. Be the man you would dread meeting on the battlefield, and fight, fight, fight until your dying breath leaves your body, and trust me, child, if you do that, you will be welcomed in heaven like a king among men. On that battlefield, you’re no longer a boy, no longer a man. You are whatever you allow them to see. You are a sword, a shield, an army, just as important as that great man next to you. You matter just as much as he, d’you wanna know why? Because you’re going to war, and so is he. The same god holds both your lives. You are a life. You are death. You are everything that your enemy fears. So dry your tears, little soldier. Forget that you ever shed them. Dry your tears, and go to war, and either return with a bloodied sword, or not at all._

These little boys and girls were more soldiers than Merlin could ever hope to be, because they went to war, and in doing so, risked their lives, theirs, not that of their loved ones, nor that of an entire kingdom, they risked _theirs_! And that was a feat bigger than any man, than any idea, than any thought could possibly hope to be. That was a feat that no idea should ever demand from a man, but that all ideas somehow seemed to, in the end, when called by the right men and using the right words.

In this stage of life, Merlin could no longer fight for ideas, because he had seen these rot over the years, being used as grounds for the deaths of thousands of men, and while he might have some faith left for the values in themselves, he had none left for the act of dying and killing for them. He mused that the most warrior that he’d ever been had been before anything bad had really happened to him; back when he had still believed himself capable of dying as any ordinary man. When he had still thought of _himself_ as an ordinary man – as a man who could die. When people heard the name _warrior_ , they often thought of old beardy men who had seen hell and returned, but the true warriors were those with hope, truly. Those who were ready to die for the simplest of things – sparkles of ideas, bits of land, fragments of love. Those who still believed that they could have a great life ahead of them, and yet chose to risk it all for a sense of good. _My principles are what made me so good a warrior at the beginning – my principles and the love that I gave those around me. But as for now? Now, to let myself die would be no feat at all; merely a selfish move on my part. I would not be risking death; I would be begging for it with every inch of my body._ A desperate man like him, with not a single thing to lose, not even his life, was no warrior at all. It was the ordinary person, the one who could have led an ordinary life, but had still chosen to fight for extraordinary ideas, or much more ordinary things such as the people they loved and the town they’d grown up in, who was the true warrior, much more deserving of carrying that name than Merlin could possibly hope to be.

Storms passed, as did all things, and the once hopeful warriors turned into small, broken men with little left to lose, scarcely able to remember what it felt like to be a warrior, because their own bitterness kept spoiling the memories, the oh-so-distant memories of being worth more than one grieving, bruised piece of soul. _We believe this world to be a bitter place, a reflection of our pitiful souls, and only bring more bitterness to it; it is the young ones, those with hope, who succeed in making this world a less bitter place. But us? We’ll remain broken till the end, ordinary in our pain… and, where I’m concerned, broken, and immortal._ One could think that his immortality would make him special, but Merlin was not so naïve as to believe that, and he knew now that it was rather the opposite: all it did was make him weaker in his convictions, weaker, and less of a warrior than he ever could have been. _I was a much better man when I believed myself to be mortal, when I still believed this life of mine to have some worth attached to it._

_Warriors are the ordinary ones, really. Those who’ll grab a sword for the sake of protecting the people they love. All the others are just bitter things like me._

The warlock sighed, repressing a shiver caused by the cold morning breeze. Was it morning already? He gritted his teeth, folding his knees to tuck them underneath his arms in a vague attempt to keep himself warm.

 _Good morning, lake,_ he silently greeted Avalon, wincing when he met the cold, silver stare of her grey waters. A few raindrops already were mingling with the wind, and with one simple glance at the water’s colour, the warlock could tell that it would rain that day. A slight, timid smile spread across his lips; his soul had always found most respite on the days when the sky would cry tears on the earth. He could remember Arthur rolling his eyes back in Camelot on every rainy afternoon when Merlin would beam and say, _that’s a weather fit for a peaceful afternoon, isn’t it?_ , his heart quite enthusiastic at the prospect of a calm, chore-free afternoon that he could perhaps spend practicing his magic, or, if he got lucky, speaking of trivial matters that lost all of their triviality as soon as he spoke of them with Arthur, in the intimacy of his chambers or the calm of the corridors, whose windows would sometimes grant them an enticing view of the gardens, bathed in a sombre light and lit by raindrops by the number that would fall and fall and fall… He could recall many afternoons spent running through the corridors, a servant and his young prince attempting to escape from boring duties, sometimes hiding in the shadow of a staircase or the secrecy of a little alcove carved in the stone. The best moments, though, were those that they had spent by the warmth of Arthur’s fireplace, sat on the floor as night was falling around us, and neither of them was too eager to leave the other. Every now and then, Merlin would remark on the beauty of the rain, and Arthur would mock him for it. And yet the more they grew to know each other and the less mocking his tone would sound, the firstly bluntly exposed disdain growing less and less disdainful, and more and more… fond, in a way.

Had he made up that last memory? Perhaps. But it had kept him warm during the most thunderous of nights, and so he would not give up on the memory, as distorted as it may be.

“I’ve lingered here too long,” he muttered.

The sun had not yet risen, but it would soon, and he did not want to risk any of the knights finding out that he had spent the night outside. Besides, if Arthur’s return was anything like that of the knights… then he doubted he would sleep well for the days and weeks to come.

 _Until next time_ , he thought, giving the lake one last glance before finally turning his back on it, and walking back to the house, wondering exactly how awkward their interactions would be.

 _I hope they’re all asleep. Or better, still, that they’re no longer thinking about what happened last night. I hope that Gwaine’s laying on the sofa, complaining about his headache, while Percival’s teasing him about it and raising the volume of the telly just to spite him. I hope Elyan and Lancelot are in the kitchen, cooking pancakes and mistaking the flour for the sugar. I hope Leon’s practicing his Russian with some of the books I’ve got. I hope Arthur…_ No. He could not think about Arthur. Or else he would have to remember the words that had been exchanged during their quarrel, and that he wound not do. All he had to remember was that the king had given up on attempting to fix him, and this was a good thing. He wasn’t the first who had tried and ended up giving up. People were always eager to make him _better_ , but after a while, they came to realise that Merlin was just too broken for it, his soul too weary. The more they tried to heal him and the more da mage they uncovered. They got tired of him once they saw that beyond his magic tricks that sometimes saved lives, he was made of little more else than battered memories and rotting feelings. Their reactions were perfectly natural. One could hardly expect men to spend the rest of their mortal lives trying to fix the soul of an immortal man. They deserved better, and as entertaining as Merlin’s magic tricks might be, they did not keep a man’s heart cheerful for long.

To go back to the topic of the knights… he did not blame them any more than he blamed Arthur. He knew guilt’s schemes well enough, and could hardly blame his friends for trying to soothe their own. Yes, it had hurt to be treated differently, and to have yet another proof of how different they were, but they were not to blame for it. They weren’t _evil_ , no more than they were malicious, and so Merlin knew, deep in his heart, that they hadn’t _meant_ to manipulate him so in their attempt to earn his forgiveness and that of all the other creatures of magic they had harmed. Their attitude had been perfectly natural; the fruit an unconscious choice, at most. And so he did not blame them, having acknowledged to himself that he had been less angered by their demand for forgiveness than by the fact that it was _he_ they had come to – he, who had sinned profusely, and was in no position to grant them any form of forgiveness. He had practically been able to hear the souls of those who had bled by the blades of the kingdom that Uther himself had carved hiss in disgust at the idea of having the traitor they called Emrys speak in their name, and of apologies, at that! The idea was laughable. They deserved better than to be represented by one like him, and that was something that the knights had yet to learn.

Anyhow, he was quite intent on avoiding the topic if he could, and could only hope that the knights would be of a similar mind.

But as he approached the house, the smoke of the fireplace now visible as it mingled with the clouds over their heads, the warlock gritted his teeth, not as much at the visible proof of them being awake than at the wave of feelings that instantly hit him.

Guilt. Pain. And anger – so much anger.

He had to stop for a second and lean against a tree so as to catch his breath, the anxiety radiating from his house contrasting furiously with the calm atmosphere that had been present in the forest. He could feel his magic whistling impatiently underneath his skin, going, _too much, too much_.

He sighed.

That was one aspect of his magic that he sometimes wished he could escape from – the ability to detect feelings. Not as efficiently as a dictionary would inform you on cold, objective facts, of course, but rather in a mort intuitive sort of way. It had begun slowly, as what Arthur had often liked to call _Merlin’s little feelings_ … Several times in Camelot, he had been able to deduce the righteousness of people’s intentions – well, righteousness was a difficult thing to evaluate, that much he had come to learn, but… at least the genuineness of their intentions towards Arthur, he had been able to verify. By an inflexion of the tone, or the tilt of a chin, or the flicker of a brow… Impressions filled his head as soon as he met a new person, and quite often, they proved to be true. The same thing could be told of a room’s atmosphere – well, of any place’s atmosphere, in truth. He had been quick to understand that his magic had an important role in this, experimenting the grounds on which it roamed and bringing Merlin a taste of all that it met and learnt. He just… felt things as more than they appeared to be at first sight. But then, as the years had turned into centuries, the little hunches, in turn, had started to get more intense. Merlin’s hypothesis was that the more people he met, the more adept his magic grew at finding them out. And so, as a consequence, the more feelings he grew acquainted with and the more easily his magic managed to recognise them in the future. The use of his other sense only made the job easier, and quickly, he had learnt to coordinate it all to get better results.

And right now, there was no longer only him in his house, but rather seven people, and these seven people were experiencing a _lot_ of emotions.

As he reluctantly walked closer, it only got worse, and by the time he had reached the front door, the emotions that had been radiating from the house were now clinging to his chest, as close to him as they could.

He released a soft sigh, bracing himself for what he would find inside, before finally pushing the door, concealing the sound it made with a violent gust of wind that his magic beckoned closer. Then he took slow steps in the direction of the kitchen, hearing his friends’ voices, and quickly identifying Gwen’s.

“How could you be so insensitive? Elyan? Gwaine? Lancelot?”

Had he not been worrying about the emotions that he could hear in his friend’s voice, Merlin would have probably felt a wave of compassion for the knights that she was seemingly angry with. Things being as they were, he merely gave them a thought, wondering what could have happened to upset Gwen so, especially so early in the day. He realised, when reminiscing the previous night, that she, in truth, hadn’t been there. She had probably left the room after his row with Arthur… but why such anger in her tone now? Because it made no doubt now that the anger came from her – not Elyan, not Gwaine, not Lancelot. _Her_.

“I didn’t mean to… I never… Look, Gwen, I could see that he was not well – he could _all_ see it. And you’re always the first one to say that when people are not well, they ought to talk about it. Well, that’s what I wanted for him. That he _talked it out_ with someone, at last.”

Merlin heard Gwen’s breath hitch, and he wished he could be there by her side, wished there was _some_ thing he could do to soothe her aches.

“Yes, Elyan,” the queen said, “I do advocate communication, but not in one night! Besides, we’re not just talking about anyone, are we? This is _Merlin_! Merlin, your friend, who has been forced to keep his magic a secret for years! And now, you just expect him to – what? Accept your apologies in one night?” She scoffed, and there was such bitterness and grief in that sound alone that Merlin winced, and instantly knew that the knights had, too. “Have you any idea how many years it took until finally, finally, he confided into _me_ about it? Any idea how many years it took until the word _magic_ or _warlock_ or _sorcerer_ , or even _pyre_ , could be uttered inside a room without him automatically tensing and looking like a hunted prey, as though expecting me to just – to just change my mind and choose to condemn him? How – how did you imagine it went, exactly? One long emotional talk after Camlann, and then casual conversations for the rest of our lives? If that’s you thought, then you were wrong.” Gwen paused, and Merlin could hear footsteps, as if someone was tyring to get close to her. He could feel her instantly flinching and taking a few steps back. “Don’t. Touch me. Not until I’ve said what I have to say. Not until I’ve told you what is on my heart.”

Merlin wished he could embrace her, make the pain smaller. He couldn’t bear the thought of Gwen not being alright.

“Do you want to know how it really went, after Camlann? For _us_?” Another sad laugh left her throat. “He couldn’t string two words together during the five years that followed Camlann’s battle. Couldn’t speak any of your names aloud during the eight years that followed. Talk did not come easily after Camlann, and most of the time, he and I – we’d spend more time apprehending the other’s reactions, measuring our own words in fear of stirring resentment in the other’s heart, who had already suffered so much, than actually _talking_. And magic – magic was far from being an easy topic. Not with all that it entailed. You have no idea.”

Merlin’s heart was filled with one of those feelings quite akin to nostalgia, that were stirred by the reminiscence of times both distant and closer to him, closer than they ever had been in the past. The feeling was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It just – was. Oh, he could remember. Could remember a couple of words, shy and hesitant, spoken, nay, whispered, half in hope that the other would not hear them – words that spoke of broken promises, shameful doings, and fears, too many fears. Words, light touches, careful glances. That’s how it was when he remembered the time spent with Gwen: no whole dialogues, but rather salty fragrances of fragments of life, among which the desire to be safe and known, and, just sometimes, the certainty of being so cherished. Of mattering. These memories, he could recall with a sense of wistfulness.

“You think that he’s been keeping it inside for too long, and that now would be the time to miraculously let it all out? Great job, Gwaine – really great job! Only… it’s been _three weeks_! Three. Single. Weeks. Three weeks since we returned. Three short weeks during which he’s had to grow used to the reality of himself being alive, and us being alive, all the while helping _us_ find a place in this great new world that we know nothing of! Three weeks, after having spent _forty years of his life_ grieving _you_! And you have the audacity to ask him to listen to your wailing?”

The more she laughed, and the more like sobs her laughs sounded. The more she laughed, and the more it hurt Merlin to hear her.

“Since we were back, we figured it would be a right time to talk.”

“Since you were back.” By the sound of Gwen’s tone, Merlin could tell that she was smiling. “Since you were back… you have no idea, do you? Of how utterly heartbreaking it is to have you all back here after we’ve had to bury you and whisper prayers on your graves? Oh, of course not, because you’re back. Brave, tenacious warriors, back from the war. They fell, but now they’ve risen again. Brave warriors, smiling, laughing, ready to make their peace. Good for you. But perhaps you should keep in mind that your return doesn’t change the fact that we _grieved_ you. All of you. And he, us. Before you came back, _we_ had to learn to let you go. Things won’t just go back to the way they were. Not when we’ve spent the last couple of weeks trying to get used to the fact that _you are not dead_ , and more than half our lives before that convincing ourselves of the opposite. You are not dead.” Merlin, although not standing in the room with them, could imagine Gwen’s heavy gaze resting on the knights’ faces turn by turn, saying, “You are not dead. You are not dead. You are not dead.” The thought of it broke his heart.

“Please, Guinevere…”

“Not now. Not you. Not after the way that you treated _my_ friend last night. Patient, attentive, noble Lancelot.” Her voice was weary, but the pain in it was unmistakable. Had she been talking to him, Merlin doubted he could have borne it. “Perhaps you should start paying less attention to all the things that are supposedly wrong with your friend, and more to all the effort he’s providing to ensure us a nice start in this second life. Perhaps you should thank him for that, rather than demand that he tell you all about the suffering _we_ have inflicted on him, all in the matter of a couple of weeks! I get it. There was a time when he would tell you everything, and now, you’re feeling resentful, for he won’t speak of it to you any longer. Let me tell you this, though. Your rancour will do him no good, no more than _my_ own rancour would have done him in Camelot, after Camlann. And if _I_ was able to overcome it while attempting to mourn, able to overcome both the rancour and the overwhelming guilt, then you lot most certainly can, too! At least you’ve got each other.” She took another deep breath. “And if you don’t understand why he’s being so distant, then maybe you should start putting yourself in his shoes, for once, instead of just watching him from afar and listing all the things that are not right. Because, you see… he’s had a life. After all of you, he’s had a life; granted, not a very cheerful one, but he’s had one all the same, and he lived it – _as did we all_. The warriors died and those who loved them kept living. And what may feel like the blink of an eye to you felt like _years and years_ to us, and trust me when I say that nothing you can say or do will ever have the power to change that. The power to change the simple, unadorned fact that…”

_You weren’t there._

“You weren’t there.”

The knights winced.

“And since you weren’t there, then you just coming back and acting like you know us – I won’t stand for it. I won’t. I won’t, because you don’t know us. Not any longer. You don’t know us, and you can’t fix us either. Not the way that you’d like to. In the aftermaths of your… deaths… we fixed ourselves, he and I. The only way that we knew how to, by attempting to mend Camelot and the hearts of her people. So hear this. _Your closure is not our closure._ And you’ve no right to come here, and act like it is. You may have come back from your war, but it doesn’t mean that Merlin and I stayed here all along, waiting for you. Doesn’t mean that _we_ didn’t have to come back from some sort of war of our own.”

Merlin’s sight grew hazy, and he closed his eyes briefly, feeling the tears. At this instant, he loved Gwen more than words could express. Somehow, she had managed to say the words that he could not say without screaming, crying and breaking. He admired her strength.

“Yes, Merlin is your friend. Yes, Merlin loves you. And yes, Lancelot, Merlin still trusts you – and that stands for you, too, Arthur.” Merlin started, having not noticed Arthur’s presence in the room earlier. He suspected that the king had just arrived. “But here’s the thing – you can’t expect things to go back to the way that you left them, because that’s not how time works, nor grieving. Even your love for him won’t be enough to overcome such things. So, yes, you can call him cold if you like, and moan about him refusing to get better, and claim that he’s being selfish… but know that at this instant, you are the selfish ones, and if you can’t even try, even for a _mere_ second, to put yourself in his shoes and try to understand what he’s feeling, then _you_ are the cold ones… the coldest ones of all.”

Merlin’s feet had taken him to the kitchen’s entrance, and he was now standing there, petrified, his head filled with the words that Gwen had just said. As he looked at her, he saw none of the young Guinevere whom he had met all those years ago, none of that halo of dream-tainted innocence that would float around her each time she laughed. The Gwen he could see was aching in a way that made her more alike to him than anybody else in this room.

And by the silence that had now taken hold of the entire room, the warlock could guess that the knights were seeing that person, too. For the first time, perhaps; save for Leon and Percival, that is.

Then, two things happened at the same time.

A sob broke through Guinevere’s lips.

And Arthur’s voice cut through the silence as he asked, in a tone that would seemingly accept no opposition, “What. Happened?”

Merlin dismissed the latter as soon as he heard the sob, and, broken out of his previous haze, he reacted instantly, blaming himself for his previous passivity: he rushed into the living room, having eyes only for his oldest friend, and in a few quick strides, he was already kneeling on the floor by her side, tentatively reaching for her hands as he looked up at her with all the kindness he could muster. His vision was blurry, but, when looking up, he could see that there were tears in her eyes, too, and could also hear her heart beating at an alarmingly quick pace.

“Gwen?”

He could hear the knights seemingly arguing in the background, Arthur’s tone sounding particularly impatient and just the tiniest bit threatening, but he would pay them no attention. Not with Gwen having demonstrated just how broken she was, too.

His friend was all that mattered at this instant. She _had_ to be alright.

Sudden panic mingled with the pain and nostalgia huddled together in Merlin’s heart. He didn’t know what he’d do if Gwen _wasn’t_ alright.

She had to be, she had to be –

“Gwen,” he said again, more assuredly this time.

_She had to be._

“Merlin,” Gwen sighed, one of her hands brushing Merlin’s cheek. “Where _were_ you? Your skin is cold.”

Merlin smiled in relief. “Outside,” he said. “The moon was full.”

He heard her chuckle. “Of course.” But then her tone was grave again, grave, and full of pain. “I thought I – I thought we’d lost you. Driven you away.”

“Of course not – of course you didn’t drive me away. It would take a lot more than that to drive me away.” As he chuckled nervously, the warlock tried to ignore the wave of guilt that threatened to overwhelm him.

“I thought I’d – “

“But you _didn’t_ ,” he insisted, more firmly this time. “You never could. And you’re alright, yeah?” he said as he tugged at his own magic, praying that it would find a way to help her, _please, stars, help her_ , “you’re alright, Gwen.”

When a hand brushed his own shoulder, the warlock winced, but relaxed a little when he saw that it was only Percival. The knight, his face calm and impenetrable, for which Merlin was grateful, since he didn’t feel like dealing with more emotions than he was already doing with Gwen’s and his own, tilted his head slightly, pointing at the door.

Nodding, Merlin turned back to Gwen, whose gaze appeared distant. “Let’s go, yeah?”

He could feel Arthur raise his voice once more, and forced himself to ignore it. _Only focus on Gwen._

His dear friend laughed. “Look at us both, Merlin. Such messes.”

“Yeah, we are, aren’t we?” Merlin whispered back, just as softly. “Come on, Gwen.”

Then they were finally standing up and preparing to walk away. Just as they exited the room, Merlin heard Arthur’s voice bark, “You bloody _idiots_!” It took him all of his self-control not to turn back, but he managed it, and a few instants later, the three of them were gone, and on their way to Gwen’s bedroom. Merlin and Gwen sat on one end of the bed, while Percival said he would go and grab two blankets and some biscuits. The warlock thanked him with a grateful look from where he and Gwen were clinging to each other, and felt even more grateful when the knight kept his face smooth and calm, closing the door behind him as softly as each of his previous gestures had been.

The silence in the room was a relief to them both, and for what could very well have been an hour, they were content with simply holding the other silently, grateful not to be alone after having reminisced such painful and distant memories, and, in Gwen’s case, expressed feelings that had so far remained a secret, only ever voiced in the languages of touch or looks. Merlin wanted to tell her that he was proud of her, but he didn’t want to upset her by speaking, and so he simply settled with braiding her hair as gently as he could. It always seemed to soothe her whenever they did this, and it felt good for Merlin, too, to have an excuse to focus on a simple action such as this one.

Later, Gwen’s voice rose in the silent room. “I think Gwaine’s going to be jealous of me.” Merlin could hear a smile in her voice, and he felt reassured. “He always complains that you don’t hug him often enough.”

“I could say the same about Arthur regarding you,” the warlock remarked, hoping that his voice would sound neutral enough.

Gwen’s first answer was to laugh. “ _You_ ’re not the one Arthur’s jealous of,” she said.

But she kept it at that, and so Merlin didn’t push further, knowing that if he started to think about Arthur, he would struggle then to rid his thoughts of him. And so instead, he suggested, “Lancelot, then.” He knew that he was walking on thin ice, and had no desire to taunt his friend by suggesting the knight’s name, but he was genuinely curious, and, most of all, worried, about the state of his friends’ relationship. He hadn’t forgotten the gaze Lancelot had rested on her in the living room that other day, nor the sad, peaceful wistfulness in it.

His friend, far from seeming irritated by the question, shrugged and rested her forehead against the warlock’s shoulder. They were both lying on the bed, eyes scrutinising the ceiling, although, in search of what, Merlin could not tell. Gwen played with her braid. “I’m not sure.” She then tilted her head to the side, searching for Merlin’s gaze, and when she found it, continued, “I’m not the person he once knew and fell in love with. And I don’t think I can be her again.”

The remark was a surprising one, especially coming from a soul such as Gwen’s, and regarding another being such as Lancelot’s, but it also ringed oddly familiar in Merlin’s mind. It was a strange thing, to hear thoughts he had himself entertained be voiced by a person they seemed incompatible with. He did not know on which side he was, then. Was he to defend Gwen’s point of view, or to attack it? Wouldn’t the latter make him a hypocrite?

He settled for a simple question, hoping that his tone sounded as neutral and non-judgemental as he was attempting to be. “Did he ask you to be her?”

Gwen snorted. “He didn’t ask me anything. Barely even dares to look at me most days. I can’t remember the last time we touched, be it only to hand each other a plate.”

 _I hugged Arthur only last night._ But then another thought, darker, erupted into his mind. _Was it the last time he and I touched?_ He shuddered at the thought, and wished he had not thought of Arthur’s arms around him, for now, he could not rid himself of the wish of being embraced by them once more. After fifteen hundred years spent craving for Arthur’s touch, had he robbed himself from the opportunity of ever touching him again because of what he’d said last night? If so, he already felt like Gwen, lonely and doomed, only _he_ could remember the last time they’d touched, and it already felt too distant. Distant… terrifyingly distant. He felt like an idiot.

“But you love him,” Merlin finally forced himself to reply, calmly, as one might depict the Earth’s rotation arc around the sun.

“I love him,” Gwen repeated. She sounded dispassionate, as though weighing the fact like any other. “So what? Does it even make a difference? Fifteen hundred years ago, when I was not yet a queen, it would’ve meant the world. The great love of my life… nothing could have competed with that. Not when I’d just met him, and couldn’t take my eyes off him. Not when I’d just met him, and it already felt like we had known each other forever.”

Unbidden, the picture of a young prince and a physician’s apprentice flashed in Merlin’s mind. The picture of a scene he had reminisced over and over again, for centuries, recollecting tiny fragments of colours and voices until, finally, the memory was complete. Unsoiled. Eternal.

_It already felt like we had known each other forever._

Gwen sighed, and for the first time, Merlin realised how weary that sigh was. He thought back on a couple of words that the queen had told him as she’d been dying and reminiscing of all the time she’d spent with her loved ones. _You and I – we’ve seen a lot, haven’t we, Merlin?_ she’d said. And Merlin had turned away to hide his tears, because he knew that he had many things yet to see, and was trying to get accustomed to the idea that Gwen wouldn’t be there to see them with him. This was to be the end of the lives they’d spent together, the end of this common mess that they’d witnessed together, witnessed and fed and tried to appease. And he knew already that there would be no other person who would understand and know him as well as Gwen did, as well as Gwen _had_ , for this was his first human life, so to speak, and as the century was coming to a term, all the people he had loved were falling like flies, and with them, their love for Merlin.

He was terrified, he could recall. With the promise Arthur had forced on him still clutched to his heart – _I want you to always be you_ –, he had been terrified, utterly terrified, because without Gwen, without Gaius, without Arthur himself, who would there be to tell him if he was indeed being himself? Who would there be to know him, the _real_ him? And, most frighteningly so, to _stop_ him should the need arise? There had been two answers to that question, both equally terrifying: no one or Merlin himself.

The warlock shook his head, fighting against his tears, and played with Gwen’s hair again, listening as she spoke.

“I love him. Great news; so what? Is that going to change the person that I am now? Make him less of a ghost and more of a lover in my eyes? Is love really enough to overcome all sorts of obstacles, including time and death? Enough to overcome Lancelot’s aching desire to always _mend_ things, mend and protect?” Her eyes looked sad and lucid, and Merlin could understand precisely what she meant, so he nodded wordlessly. “He can’t fix me, Merlin. I know he wants to, but I can’t be the person that he wants me to be. Love is a great thing, but an even greater one is to be known, and that will never be restored between us. We will never know and understand each other as we once did. And if he claims that he loves me, well, then… then I’m afraid that all he’ll find, when searching the contents of his heart, will be an idea. The memory of what I was when we parted, a thousand times embellished.” She swallowed. “A person I can no longer be, no matter how much I may wish for it. Not even for him. Not even for my heart’s greatest love.” She looked up. “So, you see, Merlin, I love him… but that matters little, after all.”

Her words, that should have made the warlock feel reassured, less lonely in his solitude, on the contrary caused him great sadness, although he could not say why.

His throat was tight, and all he could do was hold his friend’s hand tightly and wish that things were simpler. Wish that once, _only once_ , love might be enough after all, enough to overcome _all sorts of obstacles_.

.

The kitchen was deadly silent when Merlin returned there. Only Leon and Percival were there, gazing in the distance wordlessly, and Merlin was relieved to find that it was only them.

“Thank you,” he told Percival. “For the biscuits and… and everything.”

The knight nodded in response, eyes calm, as ever. The calm induced by his and Leon’s presence was a true relief compared to the previous atmosphere of the kitchen, an atmosphere that had been made of resentment and anger and grief.

“How is our queen?” asked Leon.

At the same time, Merlin glanced at the clock over the fridge. _Ten o’clock._ Then, at the window: rain. At least the odds of Arthur being outside were rather short; the king had always hated getting wet, and Merlin hadn’t given him any rain clothes. That made one less thing to worry about.

“Strong,” Merlin replied, a small smile brushing his lips. “But then, she always was.” He grabbed a clementine and tossed it over to Percival, raising an eyebrow. There had been six clementine in the bowl the night before, and the number had not changed. Merlin knew that Percival ate one clementine every morning, and he also knew that when under a stressful atmosphere, the knight tended not to eat. And they could not have that. “Arthur?” he inquired, glancing at the window once more and shuddering as he saw the wind mingle with tree branches and make them dance. He’d have to light a fire in the living room.

“Furious,” Leon said. “Was, at least. Sill is, I think.”

“Furious?” Merlin frowned. “What about?”

The two knights exchanged an odd look. “You.”

“What about?” he repeated. _You_ was too vast a term for Merlin’s liking; who knew what Arthur was resenting him for?

“The way we treated you last night. The way we… pushed you… for information.”

“Don’t be silly,” Merlin instantly retorted, “you two did nothing. And I don’t blame Elyan or Gwaine either, least of all Lancelot. I can’t blame you for it.”

“Well, we _do_ blame ourselves, and so does Arthur.”

“Arthur blames…”

“Us.” Percival bit his lip. “He was furious this morning when he learnt of what had occurred after he left last night.”

“Arthur… was furious… with _you_?”

“Who else would he be furious with?”

“I don’t know, _me_? It doesn’t make sense. _Why_ would he go to the trouble of defending me when he’s supposed to be mad at me? Why would he be protective when–”

“Can’t he be both?” Leon looked far too smug for his own good, and Merlin scowled at him.

“No, he can’t!”

“Well.” Percival shrugged. “Maybe he’s just not as mad as you thought he was.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “He can’t _not_ be. Not after the things I said to him. The things I let him say…”

“Merlin?” Percival tried to give him an encouraging smile. “Try not to worry. You care about Arthur. Arthur cares about you. You’ll sort it out eventually.

Merlin winced, but he managed a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

.

There was a pretty garden next to Merlin’s house. Large bushes rose around it, creating the impression of a refuge of some sort, and the warlock liked to go there when he needed some time alone – and by _alone_ , he meant far from the memories of nightmares and deaths that his house reeked of.

He had tried to fill the garden with the things that he loved the most – loved, as in appreciated simply for the sake of appreciating them, and not for the sake of perpetuating some sinking memory. Not that he didn’t do that, too. Gather objects from distant times, relics both of the persons he’d met and the person that he had been around them, and keep them close, as furniture for the ruin that he had become. As a way to remind himself that this ruin had felt things, loved people, _been_ a person itself. To remind himself of how it felt to feel. And so he’d gather cloaks and chainmail, teabags whose aroma had faded and dried petals that still looked as beautiful as the day that he’d plucked them from their homes, dusty ink containers and crinkled handwritten letters, all these tiny bits of life that reminded him of a time when he had been a writer, a lover –

A warrior?

To most people, these objects, put together, side by side, would make no sense, or be seen as the remainders of fifty, a hundred, a _thousand_ lives, but to Merlin, they did make sense – they _had_ to make sense. To him, a dusty bloodied map reminded him of a thirst for adventure that had overwhelmed him after the eleven years of captivity that he had known, years from which he had kept a fistful of dust and memories of words the woman he had shared the cell with had said to him, words depicting a dream that she would never achieve – _I want to sail until I reach a land where no one knows me…_ and then there came the broken pipe that had belonged to the man he had met onboard, whose tales of mermaids never seemed to end and who drowned in the waters he so eagerly spoke of, perhaps taken away by some of those mermaids who’d visit him in his dreams; or so he said. And then his eyes would land on a flask that had once been filled with deep, red wine, and he would smile, remembering the captain of the ship and their nightly conversations, and then the knights when there would be no words save for the inevitable _checkmate_ when their game came to an end, oh, and Merlin could remember the seagulls shrieking in the distance, and that one time the red-haired captain had started and shouted, _bloody seagulls!_ , and then they had heard the mermaid lover preach on the deck, dilapidating some tale about the said seagulls as efficiently as most men on the ship dilapidated the wine, and the captain’s blue gaze would soften, and something in the way he’d muss up Merlin’s hair would make the warlock smile while his chest clenched, overwhelmed with the faint memory of blunt camaraderie tempered by gentle protective gestures such as this one. And it was a horrible thing, each time he met someone new, to wonder how quickly his memory of them would fade, but that’s what happened when he met the captain, and now he was pained to realise how little he remembered of him, save for his appreciation for good wine and poorly concealed fear of seagulls. But, see, this was the point of all the objects he kept: they were linked, forging ties between all the lives that Merlin had lived, long or short, and in addition of keeping it all together, somehow, they also ensured that his loved ones still had a place to be remembered. And so with the help of a map, a pipe and a flaks of red wine, to which were quick to cling to bits of voices and touches, the memories of distant times became clearer in Merlin’s head, and with them, the people they carried, and after a while, what had once been seemingly individual fragments of shattered lives became one long rope of a life that had never really ended, a rope carrying more dead than any graveyard, no matter how wide, could possibly hope to.

But that had not been Merlin’s intention in coming here today. His intention had been to – it had been to – why was he here already?

“Merlin? Merlin!”

Feeling dizzy, the warlock felt his body react to the hands on his shoulders before his thoughts seemed to register it, and he started violently.

When he spotted Arthur standing next to him, he felt stupid and ducked his head, cursing himself for having lost himself in his thoughts.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Arthur shook his head slightly in response, his mind seemingly worrying over another matter.

“You were dreaming,” he said, a bit cautiously.

 _No wonder he’s so cautious after the things I said to him last night._ Merlin felt embarrassed and ashamed, although he knew he ought to be glad that Arthur was still speaking to him.

“No,” he quickly replied. Arthur rose a sceptical brow, and Merlin admitted, “I was just – just thinking. That’s all.”

He saw the king open his mouth, probably about to ask more questions on the subject, and Merlin tensed, already bracing himself for another for interrogations that neither his lies, nor his true answers, could possibly hope to soothe. But then, quite miraculously, Arthur chose to say nothing. From the sad look in his eyes and the weary sigh that he released as he focused his gaze elsewhere, Merlin could tell that Arthur, having remember their conversation from the night before, was now choosing to drop the subject, hopefully never to address it again.

Being aware of how hard it was for the king to drop a subject he had put his heart into, the warlock reminded himself, not for the first time, of how important it was that he kept his resolve. After a while, surely, Arthur would end up dropping the subject. It would just take some resilience on Merlin’s part.

_I can do this. I’ve managed to keep my magic from him for years – surely I can keep the rest a secret for however long it takes him to get used to this world, especially given my experience._

Arthur cleared his throat in that manner that he had when he tried to play a role that wasn’t his. At this instant, he was doing his best to appear careless. Merlin knew him well enough to know that this was not true, but he appreciated the effort all the same. “What is this place?”

Arthur’s tone was one of forced curiosity, but the question came as a relief to Merlin all the same. The warlock turned a nonchalant glance on their surroundings, trying to muster as honest an answer as he could.

He was beginning to think that perhaps they would manage it, in the end. Light conversations, with Arthur trying to contain his curiosity, and Merlin, in return, doing his best to give him sincere answers. So long as neither of them asked too much of the other, they would be fine, surely. It was all about balance, really.

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Just somewhere I go to whenever I need to empty my head.”

“It didn’t seem like you were emptying your head earlier,” Arthur pointed out, at the same time taking a few steps into the garden, glancing at their surroundings curiously. _Prat,_ Merlin thought with an exasperated smile, watching as Arthur walked as though the whole place belonged to him. _Self-entitled as ever._ There was a certain humility to his posture, though. His open curiosity, more and more genuine as he kept looking, caused his cheeks to pinken slightly. “It rather seemed like you were _filling_ it with even more thoughts, which I normally wouldn’t object to, given your head’s clear lack of substance, but…” He didn’t finish his sentence, instead eyeing the small baobab curiously, clearly intrigued by the plant’s shape. “Huh.”

“Well,” Merlin prudently began, “you’ve got to think of things if you’re to let them out, don’t you? They won’t just miraculously show themselves out.”

A hint of laughter flashed in Arthur’s eyes, who glanced at Merlin briefly. “No, I suppose not.” Then, looking around, “there are a _lot_ of flowers here.”

“This is a _garden_ , Arthur,” he retorted, exasperated and amused.

The king hummed. Then, in an almost singing and drawling voice as he glanced elsewhere, feigning nonchalance, “No need to feel quite so offended, _Mer_ lin. This was not a reproach.”

Merlin’s eyes widened. “I was _not_ offended!”

The look Arthur gave him was incredibly irritating. Was he that infuriating back in Camelot? _I can’t believe I miss_ that, the warlock reflected, smiling regardless.

Something that Merlin was less comfortable with, however, was how attentive Arthur seemed to be in their surroundings, seemingly interested in the garden and perhaps in that it reflected a little bit of Merlin, too. _He’s found another angle to try and find me out_ , Merlin mused. Nice warrior strategy.

And it shouldn’t have worried Merlin that much; after all, there was little to see, and even less to deduce. A couple of tables, chairs and flowers were not likely to tell Arthur much about his servant, and, when it came down to it, the garden was composed of rather typical objects, like the small figurine of a bird or a board of chess. Merlin could recall lying in the grass on countless occasions, spending his mornings listening to the birds sing and his nights making up names for the constellations that he saw.

And yet there was something bluntly intimate about the whole place, something that made it seem like a refuge, a _way out_.

And from the way that Arthur kept looking at the place in its every detail, the warlock began to wonder if the king couldn’t see that, too.

Finally, Arthur said, “It feels different, here.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. More alive, maybe? More…. just more. It’s like you said that other day, Merlin. That everything seems like more than it is.”

“Oh.” Merlin swallowed. He hadn’t realised that his magic had filled the place so, but then, it did make sense. “That would be…”

He bit his lip, unsure whether to say the word. After all, he still didn’t know where Arthur stood on the subject. It’s not like they’d ever properly discussed it. Fortunately, he did not have to say it, because Arthur seemed to guess it.

“You said you came here to empty your head… it’s your magic, isn’t it?”

The warlock smiled sheepishly. “I don’t control it when I’m here. I just… I just let it flow freely, as I’d do in Ealdor, in the early days, when I didn’t know the risks yet. Here, it just… is.”

“It doesn’t feel like that in the rest of the house, though,” Arthur observed.

“That’s because I try to control it there. I don’t want to… overwhelm you, so I do my best to control it. Well. I didn’t do a good job doing that last night, but… I try to keep it under control, because it can be pretty intense. Especially when you’re not used to it flowing freely.”

The allusion to Camelot and the constant repression was poorly concealed, and Arthur did not miss it, if the way that he paled was anything to go by.

“So… this…” He pointed at their surroundings. “Is you? The unrestrained you, so to speak?”

Merlin shrugged. “I guess. I mean… it’s not like it’s frozen, or anything. You can’t just draw a painting of my magic. It’s in perpetual evolution, like… like everything, in fact. You can’t just anchor it. It’s not how it works.”

Arthur nodded calmly, his eyes on Merlin, attentive. Then, with a faint sigh, he murmured, “How you must have despised me.”

Merlin thought he’d misheard. “What?”

“ _Despised me_ ,” Arthur said.

“What?” he repeated. “Arthur, I told you last night. If I’d despised you, as you claim, I wouldn’t have done the things that I did.”

_And perhaps things would have gone better, in the end._

Given the stricken look that Arthur gave him, he had probably said that last part out loud. Merlin cursed internally.

“Merlin… the knights told me about something you said… apparently, you said that… that you were as guilty as them. As guilty as _I_.”

Merlin looked back at him, unflinching. “So?”

“So?” Arthur laughed that laugh he laughed whenever he heard something that was absurd to him, and Merlin stiffened. “Merlin, what _is_ it that you’re so keen on keeping from me? I – I – I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry, but I can’t do it any longer. Pretend not to care. Pretend that idle chatting will be enough for me, because _it won’t_. Not when you look at me and speak of a guilt that you don’t deserve to carry. And I need to – I need you to _know_ –”

“ _Destiny ruined us!_ ” the warlock snarled, taking a step forward and half-expecting Arthur to flinch. Although he didn’t, at least Merlin had his attention now. “That’s it, alright? Destiny ruined us… and _I_ helped her do it. Allowed myself to be yet another cog in her schemes, to be greedy and ambitious, and guess what? _People died for it!_ ” He needed Arthur to understand, needed him to know why he _could not_ care, _must not_ care, and if showing him how bad he was was what it would take, then he would do it. He would do it. Merlin took another step closer. “And do you want to know the worst part of it, Arthur? The reason why I’m such an irredeemable sinner?” He leaned towards Arthur and whispered the next words. “If I heard a prophecy warning of your upcoming death today, then I would do anything – absolutely _anything_ – in my power to stop it. I may even break this world in doing so.” He laughed. “I know the mistakes that I’ve made, and yet knowing won’t stop me from doing them again. And that’s not how good people work, is it? Good people _learn_ , which clearly _I_ didn’t. So now, I dare you to name me one reason, one good reason, why you should stay by my side, knowing that.”

Arthur took a step forward, too. His eyes flashed in anger. “And what if _I_ lost you? Eh? Have you even the slightest idea of what _I_ would do? The numbers of worlds I’d be ready to tear apart?”

“But that’s the _point_! You can’t tear any world apart. You don’t break worlds when you’re angry. At worst, you hit a wall. If _I_ hit a wall, how can I be sure that the whole building won’t collapse? That is the _point_ , Arthur!”

“Merlin… Merlin…” Arthur’s eyes looked pleading now. Merlin looked elsewhere. “I – I don’t know what to do. I don’t.” From the corner of his eyes, he studied the distress of Arthur’s stance, and hated every part of it. “I’ve spoken to Gwen, spoken to Lancelot, spoken to Gwaine, and _I don’t know what to do_.” His hands were running through his hair furiously. “So, please, please, please, _help me_. I’m out of ideas. What do I do?”

Merlin shook his head sadly, all his anger falling down, crystallising into cold resolution. “Nothing.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to.” Merlin sighed. “Once day, you’ll hate me. Perhaps not today, but one day, you will. One day, I’ll break, and you’ll see how irrational and _wrong_ my love for you is.”

_And I won’t wait to see that happen._

The warlock walked away and didn’t look back.

.

Merlin could remember the first time he’d gone to Avalon with Gwen and the knights as though it were only the day before. And he did _not_ like it.

After Arthur’s death, he had tried to see it as some sort of monument like those places that men built to honour their dead, had tried to see it as a keeper of memories of some kind, as the sacred lake he knew it to be… but he couldn’t.

Couldn’t see past the blood trails on the grass as he’d carried Arthur’s body, that had never seemed heavier than on the moment its soul had departed. Couldn’t see past the clouded sky with no moon that had made the waters seem even darker than usual, a terrible place to shelter his king’s body. Couldn’t see past the death, cruel and _there_ , everywhere around him, soiling the very air he was breathing, the very life he was holding.

It hadn’t stopped him from visiting, though. It had rather encouraged him to do so – to face this _place_ as some sort of twisted punishment, to watch the injustice that had unravelled all around him, and think, _I did this. Me. And now, I must pay._

He would be lying if he tried to pretend that he’d always been as composed as he had been in presence of his friends when facing the lake. Would be lying if he said that he’d never fallen to his knees, and screamed, and sobbed, and begged, and implored every entity and every god on Earth and beyond to _give him Arthur back_. Would be lying if he claimed that he’d never called for Arthur himself – because he had. On countless, countless occasions, the gods help him, he _had_.

He was too embarrassed to repeat the things he had said then, too embarrassed to even _mention_ them to Arthur, but every time he walked to the lake, he found himself unable to get rid of the feeling that Avalon was judging him. That the lake was staring him up and down, it and the spirits of the Sidhes, and snickering at the sight of pathetic, old Emrys. The lake _knew_. Had seen him at his worst. Knew how ugly he could become.

Merlin might hide his demons with a calm, serene face, but the mask was frail, and the lake saw what was underneath.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The lake was _ugly_.

“It’s quiet.”

The lake was _noisy_.

“I quite like it here, I find.”

And Merlin – Merlin _hated_ it.

As he stood in front of the lake on his own, he found that he was missing his friends’ easy chatter, that, he had to say, made the lake a more tolerable sight. Bag hung over his shoulder, staring at the bright moon’s reflection in the water, he could _feel_ that the latter was taunting him… and it had a good reason to do so, too.

See, Merlin was no warrior.

For one, warriors did not run away – and that was precisely what he was doing.

“I’m not a warrior,” he said to the lake, out loud. “I’m really not.”

_I’m not a warrior, because when warriors go to war, they know they might fall at some point – but I don’t. I never fall, no matter what I do._

“I just can’t be one. I just – can’t.”

_Men like me don’t become warriors – they just watch the warriors around them fall, men that they’ve grown to admire, and get to bury them afterwards._

“I’m just not one of them. And I’m not a bruised little thing either. He thinks I am – acts like I’m a broken warlock. But the truth is, he’s no idea what a broken warlock truly looks like. If he knew, then he wouldn’t try to mend me. He would have understood by now that it’s hopeless.”

He looked up at the sky, and sighed.

“And you know it, too. You knew it, when you distributed the bloody roles.” The wind dried some of his tears and he tightened his grip over his bag, which he held closely. “All these years, I was self-centred, wasn’t I? Kept saying, begging, _give him back to me_!” He laughed dryly. “But I was wrong. Cause you don’t need me, do you? You didn’t come back for _me_ ,” he snorted, “if you had, you’d have come back centuries ago, when I was in a much poorer state than I am now, and a much bigger threat to this world. I mean, what would be the _point_ of waiting this long? No, no, no, I’ve absolutely nothing to do with your return, and it, it’s alright. I’m fine with it. I just – I just need a moment to process that, just need a few seconds to get used to the thought. Used to that reality.” He sighed. “So was there no point to the immortality at all? Was it merely a punishment? A way to entertain yourselves?”

The warlock bit his lip.

“And yet, some part of me… some small part of me _hoped_ …” He wiped his cheeks, shaking his head. “Never mind. None of it matters anyway.”

The next minutes, he spent looking at the lake, reminiscing all that it had witnessed.

“Merlin.”

This time, he did not start. He didn’t look at Arthur either. _If I look at him, I am lost._

“How did you find me?” he asked calmly.

“Percival said you went there often. During the night.”

“Percival?” The knight was far more observant than Merlin gave him credit for.

“Everyone’s worrying.”

“They shouldn’t.”

“Come back. If it’s about your powers, we’ll sort it out. It doesn’t _matter_ what you’re capable of–“

“I can’t.” Merlin shook his head. “I can’t keep living in fear of breaking. I just can’t.”

There was nothing preventing him from becoming the villain in this story, and it was a terrifying thought.

Even more terrifying given how he felt – _utterly fed up._ Fed up with having to keeping his emotions inside a bottle lest they explode, fed up of not getting to cry or scream or even _grieve_ properly, fed up of being so damn scared all the time.

“We won’t let you.” And Arthur sounded so sure of himself, sure as the warrior that he had been, certain that he would win his battle, that Merlin just _laughed_.

“Give him a big battlefield and a beautiful cause, and on the warrior goes,” he whispered.

He could recall a younger warlock looking at Arthur on the battlefield, wondering why on Earth men seemed so eager to die for ideas. _Because it’s the closest to perfection that they’ll ever get_ , was his present opinion on the matter. It occurred to him that he admired, envied and resented the warrior, probably in equal measure.

The warlock felt older than he had in years. “Why do you even care, Arthur?” he finally asked, his tone weary.

“For the same reason that you do, I would think.” Merlin scoffed, and Arthur seemed annoyed. “Don’t do that,” he said firmly.

“Do what?”

“Act like the affection we hold for each other is asymmetrical.”

“Isn’t it?”

Arthur seemed once more stricken.

“You don’t know?”

Merlin frowned. “All I know is that for some reason, you keep pushing and pushing, _caring_ , and that if you’re doing it out of some sense of responsibility–“

“How can you be so – ?” Arthur ran a hand over his head, visibly out of patience. “How can you think–?” He seemed to be unable to finish his sentences, and Merlin found that he was out of patience himself.

“ _Why_ do you care, then?” he snapped. “Why do you _even_ care?”

“ _Because I love you!_ ” Arthur’s eyes had caught Merlin and he was not looking away and Merlin found that he himself was unable to move. Hardly able to breathe, let alone to speak. So he listened, and even that, he found that he struggled with, for Arthur’s words did not make sense. “Because I’ve loved you for longer than I can remember! Because you’re all I can ever think of, day and night, _alive or dead_! Because I wake up at dawn with your name on my lips and fall asleep at nightfall with your face in my head, and when I wake in the middle of the night, it is _your_ presence that I crave for! Because you are _all_ that matters, the _one_ thing that matters in all this chaos around us, and I could not bear to lose you… I could not bear it.” More softly, Arthur added: “That’s why.”

Merlin stared at him, his heart beating more loudly than he could ever recall it beating in the past. Arthur’s words kept echoing inside his head as he tried to make sense of them. Tried to make sense of them, and of the fact that they had been addressed to him.

By. Arthur.

The man that he loved most in this world.

The softness in his king’s eyes, now married to the pleading look on his face, was a difficult sight to look away from. He forced himself to do it, and hated himself for it.

His resolve was tested even further when the man who was the dearest to him in this world walked to him at a calm and composed face, fell to his knees softly, and rose a hand to gather both of Merlin’s cold hands and keep them there. Although not looking at him, Merlin could practically feel the faith in Artur’s eyes, the unveiled devotion, and his knees began to shake.

_Why is he looking at me like that?_

“Years ago,” Arthur said in a hoarse voice, “you insisted on seeing the good in me before anyone else saw it – insisted on seeing the good in me before even _I_ , myself, saw it. And now–“

Arthur rose his other hand until he could brush Merlin’s cheek with his thumb, and Merlin let him. That’s when he realised that there were tears on his face. His entire body was aching, cold and warm and _burning_.

“Now, Merlin, you won’t even look me in the eye.”

Arthur’s voice broke.

The warlock swallowed.

_Don’t look. Don’t look._

“So, please, I am _begging_ you. Tell me, Merlin. Tell me what’s changed.”


End file.
